


Graft

by welcometoyourworld



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (some) domesticity, A Thousand And One Original Characters, AU: This is exactly what should have happened after season 06, Bisexual Endeavour Morse, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Has ADHD, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Season/Series 06, References to historical character's suicide, Season 07? I don't know her, Season/Series 06 Spoilers, Spooky, Supernatural Elements, Un-beta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometoyourworld/pseuds/welcometoyourworld
Summary: NOVEMBER 1969—A London gangster is found hanging by his neck in a 17th century mansion in the middle of the Oxfordshire Cotswolds. When Dr. DeBryn declares his death suspicious, Scotland Yard sends one of their own to aid in the investigation. Morse, for once in his life, is grateful for the extra help. But as the case stretches on and deeper historical ties are revealed, it seems that there is less and less reason for anyone to have killed a man.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 41
Kudos: 53





	1. Intruder

“What are the chances this even is that Bailey bloke?” Strange says.

Morse shifts in the passenger seat, elbow propped up against the window and head resting in his hand. “Better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?” he manages, eyes watching cobblestone roads and historic spires melt away to cottages, then to rolling fields, and after a short while to patches of forest blackened by November’s chill.

“Still—can’t see why County couldn’t manage. Watch it be some bloody teenagers.”

“Mm.” Morse rolls his head from side to side and straightens up with a sigh. He knows Strange has other matters he could be attending—in fact, the entire Castle Gate CID has plenty of other things to be doing, rather than performing an errand for the Scotland Yard—but he also knows Strange would settle once he was on the scene and asking questions. Strange always was a good copper, thriving on the routine processes.

“Well if it is some teenagers,” Strange adds a moment later, “then their day is about to go to hell in a handbasket.”

“And if it’s Bailey?”

“Then I suppose that our day ain’t looking much better, matey.”

Morse doesn’t want to encourage Strange any further than that. Though he believes deep down that it probably is a couple of kids, the moment he gives that suspicion credence is the moment the universe plants Bailey with a loaded firearm right inside the front door.

The dim, grey clouds hovering over Oxford proper follow them the whole way. Woodstock is practically unrecognizable in late autumn, all fields of brown grass and brown soil and bare brown trees after a lush, green summer. The rest of the small towns and villages are more or less the same the farther north they drive until an hour has passed and Strange turns off the main highway and onto a winding stretch of dirt road.

“Blimey,” Strange breathes, throwing the car into park. “This is Newmont, then.”

Before them is a towering fortress of hedges, a wrought-iron gate, a Police Constable slouching against a massive stone archway, and a house that seems better suited to a Shakespeare tragedy than the Oxfordshire Cotswolds.

The stately house is an impenetrable fortress rising over the landscape. Stone battlements reminiscent of medieval castles line the roof. On either side of the sweeping front entryway, two towers stand tall like bas relief sculptures, casting heavy shadows behind them. Weathered, yellow brickwork shows the house’s age. Morse has never seen anything like it, not even among Oxford’s wealthiest circles.

“Remind me what we’re looking for?” Strange asks, gripping the door handle.

Morse pulls his notebook from his coat pocket and thumbs through the pages. “Ginger,” he starts, “about six foot and wide frame, round face, last seen in a blue suit.”

“Right. Shall we?” Strange pushes out into the crisp air. Morse nods and follows. He pulls his grey-blue overcoat tight across his chest against the cold as he and Strange approach the entrance.

“Mornin’, sirs,” the PC shivers, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. “Constable Parrish.”

“DS Strange, DS Morse,” Strange offers. “What’s the story?”

“A woman from the village reported the gate here busted open. Says she walks her dog this way every morning. We had the notice about that London chap, so we called you.”

“Have you looked for other signs of a break-in?” Morse asks, stepping to the side and peering up the gravel drive to the grand stone facade. A facade lacking an entrance. “Where’s the door?”

“It’s hidden, tucked up in the porch, on the left side there,” Parrish says. “Can’t see it from straight-on. And we’ve only the two of us out here, me an’ Constable Woode, we didn’t think it smart to go in alone.” 

“No signs of Bailey in town, then?” Strange continues.

“No, sir.”

“Who lives here?”

“No one, sir, not for years. Belongs to some group that buys up old houses and whatnot.”

“I can see a broken window from here,” Morse says. “Whoever it is isn’t very discreet.” He nods to the broken padlock on the ground. “And they’re likely long-gone by now.”

“Still,” Strange says, pushing the gate open as far as it would go, “have to have a shufti.”

“Lead the way,” Morse agrees. Parrish takes to leaning against the archway again as the detective sergeants take determined strides up the drive. 

“No footprints,” Strange notes.

“Rather think the ground is frozen solid by now,” Morse says, turning up his collar against a stiff breeze to defend his point. He stops to peer at the broken window as Strange mounts the stone steps. The entire bottom panel has been knocked out—plenty of room for a grown man to clamber through. Morse leans in to look for any trace evidence when Strange lets out a huff of astonishment.

“Damn door’s wide open!” he exclaims. Morse hurries up the stairs to stand next to him and see for himself. “Why break a window if the door’s not locked?”

“I’m more concerned with why the door hasn’t been closed again,” Morse says. 

“Are you saying they could still be here?”

“I just think we shouldn’t rule anything out.” There is an air of a rushed, unpracticed carelessness to this robbery, or break-in, or whatever this is. Morse cautiously steps over the aged threshold, gives a cursory glance to his immediate surroundings and takes in the dark interior.

Any surface not covered in a deep, almost black wood paneling is dull, white plaster. The worn wood flooring creaks and whines with every slow step Morse takes. Though the entryway is enormous, ceiling stretching far over their heads, the grey day outside is smothering any extra light; it’s claustrophobic. The overbearing smells of dusty wood and cold stone nearly knock Morse over. If possible, it’s more frigid inside the house than out.

“Split up?” Strange says behind him. “You start on this floor, I’ll go up.” Morse nods, and Strange breezes past him to the main staircase, the floors creaking and groaning beneath him until the carpeting on the stairs muffles his footfalls. Morse turns to find the shattered window.

The draught through the broken glass catches him like ice. From what he can see, there are no fingerprints, blood drips or even stray fibers left behind. Not even a dirty footprint to point him in the right direction. Morse continues down the right-most corridor, regardless, still sure that there’s no one in here but himself and Strange. He walks as lightly as possible, just in case. No need to tempt the universe.

Above him, he can faintly hear Strange moving farther away from the front of the house in the same slow, steady fashion. Morse pokes his head in each room he passes and finds much of the same in each: old portraits leaned against plaster walls, furniture dressed in white tarps like ghosts, magnificent stone fireplaces blocked up with sagging sheets of plywood. Some rooms are stuffed to the gills with boxes and a modern toolbox here and there; others are completely spartan, not a rug or hammer to be found.

He comes to a left-hand corner and finds another hallway extending far across what must be right behind the grand staircase. He repeats the process of peering into each room, legs tensing in anticipation each time, until he comes to an impressive wooden archway in the center of the hall. It’s meticulously carved with little beasts, pomegranates on snaking vines, and frankly frightening spikes. 

Through the archway is a long, arched gallery done up in the same plaster-and-wood as the rest of the house, but the ceiling is curved and a delicate, woven pattern is carved across its entire surface. Morse is taken with the craftsmanship, but despite its beauty the room itself is barren and cold. And then his eyes land on the door at the other end. A faint, warm glow is bleeding out of the small space between the door and the floor.

Morse’s breath catches and he freezes to the spot.

Bugger the bleeding universe.

He should get Strange. This could be Bailey, and he much better liked the odds of taking him on two-against-one. But fetching Strange could set Bailey off—he could flee through some back exit and the tired PC outside would be none the wiser.

Or it could be some bloody teenagers.

Morse decides to take his chances.

The first step is agony—the floorboard sinks beneath his weight and _squawks_ , the hard surfaces around him throwing the sound across the whole room. He freezes with one foot forward, straining to hear any movement at the other end of the gallery. The silence is deafening.

He takes a breath and moves again, tensing his whole body to keep his weight centered. Step after step, the cold is forgotten as he flushes with adrenaline under his coat, and he’s finally in arm’s reach of the door. He grips the icy brass knob, leaning his weight against the door, and takes a few final steadying breaths. He prepares for anything—a Bailey caught unawares, a Bailey waiting for him just on the other side of the door, some teenagers smoking in the middle of the floor, or even a completely empty room. In one smooth movement he turns the handle and bursts inside.

He sucks in a gulp of air so quickly his throat dries, and flinches backward with a terrified, “ _Augh!_ ” He reflexively draws his arm up as a shield against the unnatural sight hovering in front of him as he backs himself into the doorframe. He looks again, duty overcoming fear, and his stomach rolls with horror rather than terror.

With a shock of red hair standing out against a dark suit and ghostly white skin, it is undoubtedly Ian Bailey hanging by his neck from a support beam in the center of the room, the two chandeliers on either side casting him in a sickly yellow light.

––––––––

“There you are.” Morse is startled out of his thoughts with the appearance of Strange standing on the landing in front of him. In the brief lull of activity between explaining the situation to Thursday upon his arrival and now, Morse had wandered to this back corner of the house, tucked himself into a very gloomy-looking staircase, and folded his arms over his knees. “Are you alright, matey?”

Morse has half a mind to tell Strange _no_ , that he’d received the shock of the year not an hour ago, that he’s a tad embarrassed he’s still unable to confront corpses without a combined wave of grief and nausea, that he couldn’t bear to wait around and watch Bailey’s body be cut down from the rafters like a piece of meat, and that a dreadful, uneasy feeling he couldn’t pin down was seeping into his bones just like the frigid November air.

But he settles for, “I’m fine.”

“Right. Creepy house, innit?”

“It’s very of its time,” Morse agrees, tracing a finger over one of the wood carvings in the railing.

“When would you say that is?” Morse knows Strange is trying to pull his thoughts from whatever dark, brooding corner they had been in, and he’s grateful for the distraction.

“Early seventeenth century, during the reign of James the First. _Jacobean._ ”

“Right. Well, I came looking for you because the doctor’s here.”

“ _Strange_ –I–why didn’t you say so?” Morse grumbles, springing to his feet and speeding down the stairs.

“I just did!” The pair take up a brisk pace back through the winding halls, and the wooden floors of the gallery announce their arrival long before they emerge onto the scene.

This room, in stark contrast to the humbled and stony gallery outside the door, is ornate, inviting, and warm. The entire space, up the walls and into the vaulted ceiling, is covered in paneled squares of beautiful redwood. There are several tapestries hanging throughout, each depicting a peaceful nature scene and threaded with green and gold. 

Massive picture windows line the back wall, providing a perfect view of the back garden and beyond into the Cotswolds, and plenty of natural light. Covering even more original wood flooring is a lengthy woolen carpet woven in deep reds, rich greens and bright yellows. The history this house contains, the character, is overwhelming.

Two of their own station’s Police Constables are standing by the gaping fireplace. Inspector Thursday stands at the front of the room, in his hat and greatcoat as always, commanding the scene.

“Nice of you two to join us,” he quips. Morse sets his jaw and lets his eyes fall on Bailey’s body, now prone on the floor and looking marginally more at rest than when he was dangling in the air. 

Dr. DeBryn is kneeling beside him, pulling his tools out of his medical bag.

“Strange. Morse,” he says in greeting. The two detectives nod in his direction. Strange plants himself beneath the strip of rope still dangling from the crossbeam, staring straight up. Morse paces a few steps from where DeBryn works, eyeing the chandelier above him and then the faded tapestry on the wall, wanting to show engagement but still unable to fully stomach looking at the corpse.

“Am I correct in my understanding that he was under the Yard’s surveillance,” Morse starts, clammy hands gripping each other behind his back, “but not being actively pursued? Sir.”

“Initially, yes,” Thursday replies, coming to stand opposite DeBryn over the corpse. “Though of course as soon as he scarpered off to the country, it was a wild goose chase.”

“But if he hadn’t been pinned for anything yet, why come all this way just to end his own life?”

“Well that’s our job to find out,” Thursday says matter-of-factly. “Maybe he came out this way _to_ end his own life.” DeBryn’s words from earlier in the year echo in his mind: _“People do despair, Morse."_

Morse purses his lips and casts his eyes about the room again. Something still isn’t sitting right with him. The image of Bailey hanging in mid-air flashes across his memory, and he blinks hard to push it out of his mind.

“Anything yet, Doctor?” Strange asks. 

“It’s hard to determine the exact time of death due to this early winter weather, but I would hazard a guess between midnight and two o’clock last night,” DeBryn says. “The deep furrow and bruising around his neck is consistent with the braid of the rope and having been suspended for that long. And—oh, shit,” he tuts.

Morse’s back stiffens and he takes a few anxious steps in the doctor’s direction. It’s so unlike DeBryn to swear, especially while working.

“What is it, Max?” he asks. DeBryn, with all the care of a physician’s touch, eases the noose over Bailey’s head and tilts it to lay sideways. Strange leans in behind DeBryn while Thursday and Morse drop to their knees to see.

Underneath Bailey’s jawline, but above the dark furrow from the rope, are long scratches, scabbed over with freshly dried blood.

A sound like a gun going off jolts them all out of their examination. One of the constables is sheepishly picking his torch up off the floor. 

“Mind yourself, Parker,” Thursday grunts. DeBryn blinks quickly, takes a full-body breath and leans back over the corpse, but Morse’s eyes are flicking across the room again. Like a lightning strike, what was just dreadfully obscure is now painfully obvious.

“Where’s the ladder?” he asks, rocking up to his feet, breathless with the realization. He strides back to the center of the room and stares up at the rope. Stupid, _stupid_.

“Ladder?” Strange parrots.

“The ladder, or table, or–or a chair, where is it?” He gestures with his arms about the room, making his way back over. “There’s nothing in here.” Blank stares from the others. “ _How_ did he get up there? The beam is ten, twelve feet off the ground—if he killed himself, how’d he fix the rope to it?”

“You’re saying someone’s strung him up, made it look like suicide,” Thursday says.

“That’s what stunned me earlier—the visual dissonance of how high he was with nothing beneath him. Doctor, what do you make of those marks?” Morse continues, pointing to the corpse and coming to a stop beside the doctor.

“Obviously I need to do a proper postmortem, but judging from the angle and the dried blood under his fingernails,” DeBryn says, holding up one of Bailey’s hands for all to see, “then I’d say they were self-inflicted in a struggle against the rope.”

“He was murdered?” Strange asks.

“It would seem so,” Thursday answers.

––––––––

Morse watches the medical crew pack Bailey’s body, now tucked into a bag, into the back of the ambulance from the stony front steps. The day is fast approaching noon, but the clouds obscure any midday sunshine trying to poke through. Morse would wager that he hasn’t seen the sun, felt its warmth, in months. At least, that’s what it felt like to him.

The door behind him opens. DeBryn shuffles out with his medical bag and stops beside him. At this angle, Morse can see the faint pink line over his brow and the last hints of bruising fading into his hairline.

“I’ll call ahead to the station when you can come by for the postmortem results,” he says, “but I wouldn’t expect to hear from me any earlier than five o’clock. Given what I’ve seen thus far, I don’t expect to find anything too exceptionally abnormal–”

“Oh, Max, don’t say that,” Morse smiles ruefully, crossing his arms over his chest. “Strange and I fully believed we were coming out here to scold a couple of teenagers for housebreaking, not to discover a murdered London gangster.”

“Ah, yes, well,” DeBryn grins, “ _‘when you assume’_ and all that, I suppose.”

“Perhaps I’ll learn my lesson one day,” Morse replies. 

DeBryn nods. “Until this evening, then,” he says. “Try not to _discover_ anything else in the meantime,” he adds, and sets off down the drive. Morse ducks his head, lest anyone see him smirking like a fool at a crime scene.

The front door opens and closes again behind him, and Thursday is standing where DeBryn had just been.

“Mr. Bright will be none too pleased,” he says, adjusting his hat against the breeze. He starts down the steps as well, and Morse follows.

“I wouldn’t want to be the one to call the Yard with this news,” he replies. “Dr. DeBryn said he’d be done with the autopsy around five o’clock, by the way.”

“Right. Plenty to do in the meantime. Strange will be hanging around here to gather statements from the county officers and the woman who called them this morning. We’ll have to brief Mr. Bright, of course, and draft up a list of possible suspects.” They pass through the iron gates—Morse nods at PC Parrish—and Thursday rounds the front of the Ford. 

He tosses Morse the keys, and they clamber in. Morse turns over the engine, grateful for the distraction driving back will provide, and turns the car out onto the main road.

They’ve barely spoken these past three weeks, other than to go over notes and reports, and take turns hurling lengthy lists of charges at the bastards from the quarry in the interrogation rooms. They didn’t acknowledge what happened, not to each other. They simply settled into their new normal.

Which is why Morse is stunned when Thursday asks, out of the blue, “Since when do you call Dr. DeBryn ‘Max’?” Morse adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and purses his lips.

A hot flash of anger flows through him. _Since you barely spoke to me in the last year_ , he thinks bitterly, _and got too friendly with corrupt coppers that took him from his place of work and beat him over the head and broke his glasses and kept him in a quarry overnight in the cold and used him as bait to lure me to my death—since someone has to look out for him, make sure he’s alright._

A simple answer would’ve been, “Since he became my friend,” or, “That’s his name,” and he considers them while shifting into the next gear, but what comes out is, “Does it bother you? Sir.”

Thursday looks taken aback—Morse is glad, for he meant it to sting, and how he addresses Dr. DeBryn is frankly none of Thursday’s business—but ultimately replies, “No,” and leaves it at that.

They don’t speak again until they pull into the station.

––––––––

“Dead!” Bright exclaims, crushing the end of his cigarette into an ashtray with much more force than Morse thinks strictly necessary.

Bright’s new CID office is just as brutally grey and sterile as the rest of the station. The visual of him standing behind a grey metal desk in front of a grey cement wall only exaggerates how exhausted he looks, the soft light from outside still casting deep shadows across his drawn face. The accents of wood paneling here and there bring no warmth to the space. 

Morse is suddenly nostalgic for the Cowley station, and the deep emerald green of Bright’s old office. He hates the clinical dullness of Castle Gate.

Thursday stands in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. Morse stands by the door, satisfied with staying quiet until absolutely required to participate. He’s known Bright’s temper first-hand, and he’s not eager to be on the receiving end again any time soon.

“Dr. DeBryn should have started the postmortem by now,” Thursday says, “but we have strong reason to believe that he was murdered, sir.”

“ _Murdered!_ Good Lord, Thursday, how can you be sure?” Bright’s eyes are wide, and his hands twitch like he’s already thinking of his next smoke.

Thursday lays a heavy gaze on Morse—a call for backup which Morse accepts as having been inevitable.

“Strange and I found him hanging from a noose, sir,” he says, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets lest he be scolded for fidgeting, “but it was hung from a beam over ten foot high and there was no furniture beneath him. It seems physically impossible for him to have done it himself.”

“Seems?” Bright barks in the reedy, almost desperate tone that comes out when he knows that he’s asking a redundant question.

“The scene suggests—I’m quite certain he didn’t kill himself.”

“Well,” he huffs, pulling a fresh cigarette from the pack in his desk, “let’s wait until after the autopsy, hm? No need to bother the Yard until we’re absolutely certain.”

“Right you are, sir,” Thursday says. Soothing Bright seems to be a specialty of his. “We’ll tell you as soon as we know more.”

“Thank you, Thursday. Morse.” A dismissal without room for argument. Morse holds the door open for Thursday as Bright turns to face out the window, lighting and then taking a long drag from the cigarette, and closes it quietly behind them.

––––––––

Strange returns with the statements from the two Police Constables and the old woman with the dog. None of them were able to provide him with any new information, so he types up the beginnings of his report while Morse struggles to find where he left off with his last stack of paperwork.

He’s holding a document in each hand—a half-typed list of evidence with a handwritten note in his scrawl paperclipped to it, and a sworn affidavit with another handwritten note in Strange’s scrawl attached—when Thursday strides out of his office, pulling his coat on.

“That was just Dr. DeBryn on the phone,” he announces, and Strange and Morse perk up. “He’d like the three of us to go down to the morgue for the results.”

Morse is already haphazardly stuffing the paperwork back into a file when Strange asks, “Has he found something unusual?” 

“He didn’t say, but let’s not keep him waiting.” They both rise, don their own coats and follow Thursday out to the Ford. The sun has fallen just below the horizon line, and the streets are glowing under the light of the streetlamps. The temperature seems to have fallen a dozen degrees as well, and Morse hunches his shoulders against the stiff breeze.

He mostly tunes out Strange’s and Thursday’s idle chatter on the drive over.

Bailey’s body is still on the autopsy table when they push through the morgue’s swinging doors—it’s at least covered in a tarp, but the image of him hanging in the air flashes across Morse’s mind again and his breath comes a little shallower. DeBryn is waiting, still dressed in his rubber apron and gloves, arms crossed and a file tucked underneath his arm.

“Gentlemen,” he greets them. “I have some results that you three may find rather interesting.” He lays the file down on the counter behind him and adjusts his glasses.

“All of his cervical vertebrae were intact, which I expected. His windpipe was crushed, and his carotid arteries showed signs of compression—that’s typically the cause of death in hangings, that restriction of blood flow to the brain, even before the asphyxia. But I’m reluctant to rule asphyxia or stroke as the official cause of death.”

“Why’s that?” Strange asks.

“I’ll show you,” DeBryn says. He grips the tarp and crisply folds it down over Bailey’s head and torso, revealing that bright ginger hair, dark purple bruises around the neck and an open chest cavity baring all to the world. Morse stares up at the ceiling, hands on his hips, exhaling sharply, while Thursday and Strange lean in closer.

“If you’ll look at his heart, gentlemen—Morse, for God’s sake, it won’t bite.” Morse squeezes his eyes shut in lieu of rolling them, but concedes and slowly approaches the table, still several feet away though close enough to see where DeBryn is pointing with a pair of forceps.

“As I was saying—his heart. Notice these areas of yellowing here.”

“Was he sickly?” Thursday asks. “What is it?”

“I couldn’t find any evidence of exceedingly poor health. But his left and right ventricles have bloated and been calcified. I firmly believe this man died of stress cardiomyopathy.”

“Can you elaborate, Doctor?” Strange asks.

“He experienced an adrenaline spike potent enough that his heart constricted so tightly, it put itself into cardiac arrest.”

“Are you saying he was scared to death?” Morse asks, brows shooting up. Thursday’s whole face seems to frown and Strange seems more puzzled than before.

“In a manner of speaking...yes,” says DeBryn. The admission hangs heavily in the air. “Suicide is a stressful act, of course, but trauma like this is very rare, only ocurring under extreme, prolonged duress. Given this development, along with the self-inflicted wounds and the state of the scene upon finding him, I’m more than confident in ruling Mr. Bailey’s death as suspicious.”

“May I use your phone, Doctor?” Thursday asks. “I’d like to alert Mr. Bright as quickly as possible so he can contact the Yard.”

“Of course, Inspector,” DeBryn says, gesturing back toward his office. Thursday nods and closes himself in. Strange steps back as DeBryn sets about tucking the tarp back over Bailey’s body. Morse lets go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“How is your house coming along?” DeBryn asks. When Strange doesn’t answer, Morse realizes the question has been directed at him.

“Sorry?” he asks.

“Your house, Morse, how are renovations going?”

“Oh—erm. It has water and electricity, now. Drywall. Small comforts. I’ve quite a lot of painting ahead of me, still.” 

Thursday sticks his head out of DeBryn’s office. “Strange,” he says, “go start up the car. Mr. Bright is calling the Yard now and I’m on hold.” He tosses Strange the keys, and tucks himself back inside. Strange sets off through the double doors with a “Thank you, Doctor,” and then Morse is alone with DeBryn and Bailey. DeBryn has freed himself of his protective gear and is tucking more paperwork into Bailey’s file.

“Have you much furniture, yet?”

“Oh, barely. I’m lucky to have a mattress with sheets on it. Um, a few lamps. Some chairs. Silverware.”

“Sounds like paradise,” DeBryn chides. 

“My own four walls and a roof over my head? It’s paradise to me.” DeBryn smiles warmly, but Morse can see the tension he’s carrying in his shoulders, the slow precision of every move he makes. “Max, are you—are you alright? Really alright?” DeBryn pauses.

“I’m glad to be working again,” he says. “I much prefer being here than stuck at home. Keeps my mind occupied, you know.”

“But–erm, are you–”

“I’m fine, Morse. Thank you for asking.” It’s a lie Morse himself has told far too many times to not know when someone else is telling it. But this is not the time nor place to press further.

“Right. Of course.”

DeBryn’s office door swings open and Thursday strides back out, face drawn.

“Suppose I should fill you and Strange in together,” he says, looking at Morse and nodding toward the doors. “Thank you for your help, Doctor.”

“All in a day’s work, Inspector. Morse.” Morse throws him a brief smile before following Thursday back out to the car, a warm respite from the night time chill.

“Actually,” Thursday says as they close themselves in, “better you two hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

––––––––

“Yes,” Bright says, crushing what must be the sixth cigarette this evening into his ashtray, “the Yard has informed me a Met detective familiar with Bailey’s background will be arriving tomorrow morning.”

“Does the Yard think we’re not capable of–” Strange starts, but Bright waves a hand and cuts him off.

“It’s mostly a formality, Strange,” he says, but Morse can hear the weariness in his voice. Morse would rather remain a DS for the rest of his career than take on the administrative nonsense that a Chief Superintendent endures every day. “They’re much more concerned with the actions this gang of theirs in London may take. They’ve been working to expose their misdoings for nearly a year, now, and can hardly spare the manpower.”

Morse can’t tolerate half the men in _this_ station—he can hardly fathom what butting heads with a Met detective pulled off of a year-long investigation will be like. 

“So you’ve no more leads, then?” Bright asks, rubbing his temple.

“No, sir,” Strange says. “No one in Salford, the town nearest the house, saw him. No train ticket, no sign of an overnight bag. They have a few officers searching the property, but I’m doubtful they’ll find anything.”

At least Strange has always been quite thorough.

“Very well,” Bright says. “Until we’re given more information about this chap, I suggest you two retire for the evening. It seems there’s little to be done until tomorrow.” 

Strange says, “Thank you, sir,” and Morse says, “Good evening, sir,” and they take their leave from Bright's office.

“What a farce,” Strange grumbles as they make their way down the hall and back to the main floor. The station is practically deserted; the only sounds to be heard are their footsteps and the dull lights buzzing overhead.

“What do you mean?”

“Just a formality? I bet you the Yard’s sending some useless, arsehole detective who’ll do nothing helpful the whole investigation, and then claim that he was ‘instrumental’ or some rubbish when _we_ solve it. Bloody intruder, more like.”

“I thought I was meant to be the pessimistic one,” Morse smirks, though he has a terrible feeling that Strange may be onto something.

“It’s a heavy burden to bear, I thought I’d lighten your load for an evening.”

Thursday’s office is already dark, so Morse and Strange don their coats and part ways at the front steps of the station.

Morse can’t help but ponder several things back in his house, in his only armchair with a fresh bottle of ale in his hand and a slow, steady Brahms record playing. Was Newmont always Bailey’s intended destination? Had he been lured there by his killer? Or had he sought shelter while being pursued, only to be caught? Did he check into some bed and breakfast in some other small Cotswolds village and leave his belongings there, or did he really arrive in Oxford empty-handed? Had he not been intending to stay long, then? Things aren’t adding up at all. He’s desperate for more information.

He doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until his head slips out of his hand and jolts him awake. The record has ended, his ale is finished, and his watch is telling him it’s nearly one o’clock. It’s so tempting to just set the bottle down and fall back asleep in the chair—but his neck is already aching, so he blearily forces himself to tidy up and retire to his mattress on the floor upstairs.

Pulling his quilt over his shoulder and shutting his eyes, he realizes he still hasn’t shaken the dreadful feeling from earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'm new to the world of Endeavour and of actually posting fic, so I hope you enjoy coming along for the ride.
> 
> I started plotting this on a whim at the start of April and had a fully developed outline in a week (!??) My plan is for this story to be about 12-13 (?) chapters and to update every 1-2 weeks. Be warned, it's gonna get dark! My favorite kind of horror story is one where a sense of dread stretches out for ages and ages, so that's what's cooking! This isn't a case-solved-in-two-days affair, either—Morse and the gang are really gonna Go Thru It.
> 
> FOOTNOTES:  
> • Newmont is based on Chastleton House, also in the Cotswolds AONB in Oxfordshire  
> (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/chastleton-house)  
> • Yes, you really can be scared to death  
> (https://www.heart.org/en/news/2018/10/31/can-you-really-be-scared-to-death)


	2. Asset

Morse feels as though his gaze could penetrate through the cement wall he’s glaring at. He’s been on hold with the County Council's office, being transferred from department to department on the hunt for Newmont’s property ownership records, for over forty-five minutes.

“Alright, matey?” Morse shifts his gaze upward to find Strange poorly concealing a smirk. He barely manages a grimace in return, placing his hand over the mouth of the receiver.

“Could bureaucracy be any more tedious? I think they do it on purpose, as entertainment for themselves,” he says.

“I’m positive I was punted between the same two departments for half an hour once. Anyway, fancy an early lunch? Mr. Bright says the Yard called, said their loaner will be here around noon.”

“I shouldn’t,” Morse says. In a surprising moment of transparency, he adds, “The house has already cost me an arm and a leg, but this faulty wiring job I’ve got done is just bleeding me dry.”

“How do you mean?”

“I came downstairs this morning to find all my lights on. I can barely afford the electricity as I need it, let alone paying for it when I don’t. Oh—and do you know anything about fixing a draught?”

“Can’t help you there.”

“Right. Next time for lunch, though. I take it that none of the hotels or inns you called...?” Strange shakes his head.

“Seems like no one saw him between when he left London and when you found him. Gangsters are slippery bastards.”

“We’ve had an abysmal start to this investigation. This Met detective better have more inform—yes, hello, this is Detective Sergeant Morse of the Thames Valley Police.” Strange nods and makes his way back to his desk. “Yes, I’m looking for information regarding the current ownership of a property in—yes—Thames Valley Pol—yes, I’ll hold.” Morse watches Strange’s shoulders shake with laughter as he returns his gaze to the same spot on the wall, idly wondering if he could actually put a hole through it.

\-------

“The Oxford Preservation Society. I think I’ve heard of them.” Thursday takes a measured puff of his pipe and blows out a steady stream of smoke.

“OPS for short. They purchase historical properties around the county in hopes that they’ll be restored and, well, preserved for future generations to see,” Morse says. “Newmont is their biggest investment thus far.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very lucrative living.”

“It’s not, not yet. It’s mostly volunteer-run, and they’re funded entirely by donations.”

“What do you make of it?” Morse pauses, strings together his next words carefully.

“That it’s the only thing we’ve got, right now. Perhaps Bailey knew someone through this preservation group, and that’s how he knew about the house. They seem to be the only people with keys, and therefore the only people who could have opened that door.” 

Thursday considers this, taking another long drag from his pipe.

“You suggesting one of history buffs did him in? Then why leave the door open? Why not lock up afterwards?”

“I don’t know yet, sir, I’m just trying to gather information while we–”

Before Morse can defend himself, a cry of _“Blimey!”_ from Strange filters through Thursday’s closed door. Morse’s pulse rushes, already assuming the worst (not even anything in particular, just _the worst_ ), as they push out of the office; from their end of the floor, they can see Strange embracing someone in the alcove next to the elevator.

“Alright, Strange, what’s all this?” Thursday asks as they approach, Morse’s pulse returning to normal but his curiosity piquing.

Strange releases the person and steps back with a very humbled, “Sir.”

The person—a woman—laughs as she brushes long blonde hair back from her face, cheeks still pink from the cold outside. Morse almost literally double-takes. It’s Shirley Trewlove—brilliant, tactful, career-savvy Trewlove—bundled into a heavy wool overcoat, her sun-beam smile brightening the whole nick.

“Hello, Inspector Thursday,” she grins. “Hello, Morse.”

“Trewlove?” Thursday balks, his own face breaking into a wide smile as he firmly shakes her hand. “What brings you to Oxford?” 

The gears in Morse’s head are churning a mile a minute, desperately trying to connect two strands of thought together. But he’s missing a piece. He surreptitiously glances at his watch—it’s 11:57.

“Weren’t you told?” she asks, eyes wide and bright. “I’m here on behalf of the Yard.” Morse takes in her structured coat, the sleek trousers and sensible but professional loafers she’s wearing, the small leather briefcase at her feet.

“The Yard sent a WPC?” Strange asks, and then it clicks for Morse. If anyone could have done it, it’s Trewlove. He gasps, but she eyes him knowingly— _don’t spoil it_ —and starts to open her coat. “We were told they were sending a detective.”

“They did, Strange,” she smirks, fishing out what looks like a man’s wallet from her inside pocket. She flicks it open and holds it out for him. “A Detective Constable.” 

From his standpoint, Morse can just make out her portrait—dressed in a trim blazer instead of a clunky police jacket, hair in its classic French twist but without a uniform’s standard-issue hat—and the words ‘Scotland Yard Criminal Investigation Department’. 

“You’ve been promoted,” Thursday says in awe. She pockets her warrant card and he shakes her hand again. “Congratulations, Trewlove. Much-deserved, I might add.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says, bending down to pick up her case. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be meeting again under more pleasant circumstances, but I’m so pleased to see you all. Is there a space where I can...?” She gestures with her case.

“Of course,” Thursday says. “Strange, go fix up that spare desk in the corner, won’t you? I’ll call Dr. DeBryn—your first order of business, Constable, is to make the official I.D. on Bailey.”

“Right,” Trewlove says. She cranes her neck to look down onto the main floor. “Is um—is Mr. Bright still here?”

“Yes,” Morse finally says. He gestures down the adjoining hall. “He’ll be needing to see you. Shall I take you?” Trewlove’s eyes shine.

“I’d like that very much,” she replies.

Thursday and Strange make their way back down the steps, Strange taking Trewlove’s coat and briefcase to set up her desk, as Morse guides her down the hall.

“You know, I was dreading to see who the Yard would dump on our doorstep,” he says.

“Is that so?”

“Strange, too. We were sure we were going to be saddled with some dolt who’d only make things more difficult.” They round a corner and stop outside Bright’s office.

“I do hope that I’ll exceed _those_ expectations.”

“I always thought you were better suited for CID work.”

“So I’m not a dolt?” she smirks. 

“I’m very glad you’re here, Trewlove.” 

It’s the understatement of the twentieth century. He’d taken her wit and shrewd decorum and thorough police work for granted until their uncertain not-goodbye last year. The city and county merger had only combined mediocre with mediocre, gullible with corrupt, leaving Morse to muddle through it all alone. Where Oxford only kept her down, Scotland Yard saw Trewlove’s potential and rewarded her in kind.

“Congratulations, by the way, _Detective Constable_.” He holds his hand out with a rare, unrestrained grin, and she shakes it with a firm, professional grip. “Bright’s been quite stressed as of late—more than his usual. Wait here.”

Morse knocks on the window, obscured by drawn blinds, and is answered with a crisp, _“Yes, come in.”_

“Morse,” Bright barks, glancing up from an open file for just a brief second and then looking back down, “what the devil is it? Do you have an update?”

“Sir, the Yard’s detective is here and would like to speak with you.”

“Fine, yes, send him in,” he waves vaguely, flicking through the papers. Morse jerks his head and ushers Trewlove inside.

“Hello, Mr. Bright,” she beams. Bright’s hand freezes over his pen, and he jerks his head up.

“Trewlove,” he says, all agitation washed away. He stands up abruptly. “What is this? Where’s the detective?”

“This is she,” Morse says earnestly. Bright furrows his brow at him and then turns his gaze to Trewlove.

“Detective Constable Trewlove,” she says, stepping forward with her hand outstretched, “Scotland Yard CID. At your service, Chief Superintendent.” Bright gapes at her for only a moment before clearing his throat and taking her hand in his.

“Right, yes—welcome to the Castle Gate station, Constable. We’re very glad to be working with you.”

“Likewise, sir. Inspector Thursday said I’m to first identify Bailey’s body, but then I’d be glad to discuss his file and the case I’ve been working on back in London.”

“Good, very good, yes, then we can all be brought up to speed. Well, I shan’t keep you two,” he says, sitting back down, voice returned to its typical reedy timbre.

“Thank you, sir,” Trewlove says. She shows herself out and Morse moves to follow her, but Bright stops him.

“Just a moment, Morse,” he says. 

“Sir?”

He hesitates for a second. “Thank you.”

Morse simply nods. “Sir.” And sees himself out.

\-------

“Yes, that’s Ian Bailey.” 

DeBryn scribbles something on his clipboard with a sombre flourish. Trewlove straightens up and steps away from the autopsy table; her face is a perfect mask of stoicism. Morse can only imagine what she’s already seen in her first year in London, how many opportunities she’s had to practice that exact expression.

“Thank you, Constable. If there’s nothing more you lot need from him,” DeBryn says, covering Bailey up again, chest stitched back together since their last meeting, “then someone needs to get some paperwork started with London—he can’t stay here indefinitely, I’m afraid.”

“That’ll be me,” Trewlove says. “I’ll call the Yard this evening and inquire about a will.”

“Thank god for you,” DeBryn replies. “His personal effects are in the other room. I’ll bring them out—just allow me a moment to file these.” He picks up another stack of folders and brings them with him through the doorway.

“So he has no next of kin?” Strange asks.

“No,” Trewlove says, “Plenty of friends in low places, though. I’m sure they’ll have realized something’s wrong by now, if not very soon.”

“Can you think of any immediate or surface connection to Oxford? Or that house?” Morse asks. “Why someone would kill him there?”

She shakes her head. “I figured his death would be related to his gang affiliations, but the more I’ve thought about it, the more absurd it is that he was killed out here.”

“How is it you’re so familiar with this particular gangster?” Thursday asks.

“When I was brought into the CID, I was put on a long-term assignment in the East End. Gathering intelligence, documenting his movements, helping the Yard form a case against him and his cohorts. It’s his boss we’re really trying to pin, but we’ve been hoping some of the men lower on the ladder will slip up first.”

“Slow and steady work, eh?” Strange comments.

“Very slow,” she agrees. “Too slow for Bailey’s sake, it seems.”

“Here we are.” DeBryn emerges from the other room with a covered cardboard box. “Coat, wallet, keys, the usual.” Strange unburdens him of the load and casually tucks it under his arm like it’s an old hat box.

“Fantastic,” Thursday says. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“My pleasure, Inspector. And Trewlove, congratulations again.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she ducks her head with a grin.

“We miss you terribly. Are you here long?” DeBryn, Morse notes, for all the time he spends with the dead and hiding behind sarcastic witticisms, is awfully warm when he chooses. It's a warmth he's extended to all the men from Cowley station—even Morse, though he can't imagine what he'd done to earn it—in one form or another. 

“Just until the case is solved.” Strange perks up at this.

“We should have drinks tonight,” he says, “to celebrate your promotion. The Lamb and Flag, say, seven o’clock?” Trewlove’s eyes widen.

“Oh you mustn’t fuss, not over me,” she says. 

“Nonsense,” Thursday says, “it’s no fuss. What do you say, Doctor?”

“I’d be delighted.”

“How ‘bout you, Morse?” Strange says, throwing him a curious look that begs the question, _Not going to skive off lunch AND drinks, are you?_ Morse feels everyone’s eyes all fall to him.

“Of course I’ll come,” he replies, not missing a beat. Lord knows he can afford a pint—it’s the forced camaraderie he’s more concerned about. At least he’s bought himself another excuse from Strange’s next lunch invitation.

\-------

The afternoon flies by in a haze of rearranging desks, getting Trewlove acquainted with Castle Gate, and starting endless threads of paperwork. It's enough that a member of the Scotland Yard is now collaborating with Thames Valley, and thus will be writing her own reports and relaying updates to superiors over the phone, but Bright simply won't tolerate the conditions that led to the events at Wicklesham. Every piece of evidence will be logged, every phone call documented, and no one goes anywhere without telling someone else.

One of the few perks of the new station, at least, is the extra space and amenities. Bright reserves their little group a conference room for some much-desired privacy as they crack open Trewlove’s sensitive intel files.

“The gist of it,” she says, after nearly an hour of non-stop talking, “is we’re still not sure just exactly how far or how wide their influence and control goes. But we’re confident that nearly every independent business in the East End has felt the pressure one way or another.” She tied her hair back and pushed her sleeves up earlier in the evening, and is now gulping down tea that must be ice cold.

“An extortion racket of that size is simply unheard of these days,” Bright says around a cigarette. Thursday is pensively smoking his pipe, eyes glazed over in deep thought. Strange is glancing between his two superiors.

Morse, who ditched his jacket earlier on and opted for rolled sleeves as well, is hunched over Bailey’s file, absorbing as much as he can. He’s never read a Scotland Yard report before and is unsure of when he’ll next get the opportunity. Trewlove’s writing is detailed and consistent and thorough—if Bailey so much as sneezed, she was there to document it.

“I’m afraid that’s what we’re dealing with, Mr. Bright,” Trewlove says. “My superiors are very eager to rid the East End of these men, but they’re worried Bailey’s death will force the gang’s activity back underground again. They asked for the utmost discretion in whatever lines of inquiry we may pursue.”

“So this gang,” starts Strange, “they probably have plenty of enemies, yeah?”

“Without a doubt,” Trewlove answers, “but the only strange activity our officers noticed was Bailey’s disappearance. Lit out in the middle of the night, we think.” Morse can hardly stand to hear the same facts over and over—his mind is completely saturated with the very little they do know. Two days have gone and they don’t even have a suspect.

“And Bailey was what in all this?” Strange continues. Had he been listening at all?

“He’s third-in-command. His professional cover is as an assistant manager at their bookshop front, Slings and Arrows, in Spitalfields.”

“We need to speak to the leader, Cecil Strong,” Morse says, snapping Bailey’s file closed.

“I’m not sure that’s the level of discretion Constable Trewlove was advising, Morse,” Bright remarks dryly.

“This file has no mention of Oxford, or Newmont, or Salford, the Cotswolds, nothing. Strong has to know _something_ about Bailey that the Yard doesn’t. We’ve no case until we find the connection,” Morse replies. “The connection will lead us to suspects, and then Bailey’s killer.”

“He’s right,” Thursday pipes up. “I far better like our chances with this Strong character than anyone at the preservation society. Though we’ll of course follow up with them,” he adds bluntly as Morse opens his mouth to argue.

“And how will you go about this?” Bright asks the room.

“Say it’s procedure,” Thursday explains. “Bailey has no next of kin, no harm in asking his employer at the bookshop what he might know. Morse can go make inquiries like it’s any other case.”

“I’d like Trewlove to come with me,” he says. 

“Good, because that’s where she’s going. Sorry to send you right back, Trewlove, but you know London and its crowd the best.”

“I don’t mind at all, sir.”

“Right. Strange, you’ll be getting in touch with the OPS—nevermind it’ll be Saturday morning, I want a list of everyone who has access to that house. Morse and Trewlove, you can take the car if you leave first thing tomorrow. Mind you pay a visit to Bailey’s flat, too. We need his motivation for skipping town as much as his killer’s for doing him in.” 

Thursday is on a roll, and the surety with which he dictates their next moves sets a buzz of excited determination around the table. Morse would volunteer to drive to London right now were they not about to head to a pub.

“There we are, back on track,” Bright says, punctuating his words by pressing the final cigarette of the day into the ashtray. “We’ll catch this bastard, yet.”

\-------

Everyone volunteers to buy Trewlove’s first drink; she begs them not to, but eventually bestows the honor to Strange for suggesting the outing in the first place. They tuck themselves around a table meant to seat three at the most and share a couple of plates of chips. It’s just like old times, though no one dares say anything of the sort.

Between entertaining Strange’s and Thursday’s questions about life in the big city, about ascending the career ladder, she gulps down two gin and lemons in the time it takes Morse to drink half of his first ale. Her smiles aren’t quite reaching her eyes, and her shoulders slowly curl in on themselves as the evening drags on. 

At some point, Morse makes uncertain eye contact with DeBryn over the rims of their pints, and the doctor seems to be thinking the same thing as him.

Perhaps this hadn’t been a good idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im love...One detective constable....
> 
> This is literally 90% dialogue and pretty much an ode to Shirley's return but it's what ! she ! deserves ! 
> 
> FOOTNOTES  
> • By 1969, there were 629 woman officers in the Met Police, 77 of whom were in the CID. Met Women Police duties circa 1962 included "observations on crime, brothels, betting, licensing etc" and "CID and aids to CID."  
> (https://www.pfoa.co.uk/met-police-female-police-officers-history)  
> • “Anyone can make a positive identification [of a body]. It does not have to be family.” Mark A. Goldman, Retired Chief Forensic Investigator and Deputy Sheriff  
> (https://www.quora.com/How-are-dead-bodies-identified)


	3. Understudy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some pre-reading notes:  
> • Cecil is pronounced "seh-suhl" (and I accidentally made him look like Christopher Plummer: https://tinyurl.com/ycqzhbmm)  
> 

“This isn’t what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

The drive to London hadn’t taken long—Morse and Trewlove had gotten a head start on the day, having pulled out of the station before Thursday or Strange had arrived and avoiding traffic most of the way down the M40.

Morse scans the humble flat, located right on the Thames just south of Whitechapel, mismatched furniture stuffed into every nook and cranny, bits and bobs on every available surface. He thinks of the modern country estate with gleaming white surfaces the Kaspers had occupied for a short time. They and Bailey were obviously cut from very different cloth.

“Something more...grandiose. I suppose.”

“Not every gangster chooses to live like a king, Morse.”

The general state of Bailey’s flat is untidy, but not suspiciously so. He imagines this is what any one of his tiny flats in Oxford would eventually have resembled, had he spent longer than a year or two in them.

“Perhaps Strong doesn’t write his employees very large paycheques. See if you can find any mail, or an address book,” Morse says. “I’ll start in here.” Trewlove wanders deeper into the flat, and Morse turns his attention to the kitchen.

There’s seemingly nothing out of the ordinary. A few dishes lay in the sink; a well-used candle and an empty coffee mug sit next to a stack of books on the drop-leaf table; a loaf of bread in its box, no longer fresh but not yet growing mold; a half-drunk bottle of middle-shelf Scotch tucked away on the icebox. He peers at the spines of the books, more out of curiosity than anything— _Howard Carter: Uncovering the Boy King, The Silk Road from France to London: The Story of the Huguenots, Ghosts of the British Isles, Italian Cuisine to Cook at Home_.

Eccentric, but not incriminating. God knows what someone would make of the stacks of Greek philosophy, classic poetry, and most recently, more Vonnegut than he’d freely admit to owning, in his own home. At least Bailey had “worked” at a bookshop. Morse was just... enthusiastic.

“Any luck?” he calls to Trewlove. He steps back into the main hall, and Trewlove pokes her head out from the sitting area.

“No mail, but come take a look.”

Bailey’s sitting area is full of more clutter than Morse has the energy, or really the care, to contextualize. Instead he painstakingly starts picking out individual items: a drying rack, two more candles, a letter-opener on a stack of old newspapers, three _more_ candles–

“All of his lamps seem to be broken,” Trewlove says. She’s fruitlessly tugging the string of the lamp on the side table. Morse tries the one nearest him and gets the same result.

“Odd. Hang on–,” he bends down to find the cord is loose from the wall. He pops it in and floods the room with soft golden light. “There.”

“Oh. They’re all like that,” Trewlove notes.

“Dodgy power?” Morse suggests. He thinks of his own lamps that can’t seem to stay _off_. He really must call the electrician, or perhaps the power company.

“That could explain the candles. Seems like an awful lot of effort, though.” But Morse is already looking elsewhere.

“What’s under that pile of blankets?” he asks, stepping around the coffee table. Trewlove begins pulling them down, and he helps her toss them onto the couch. “Is that a cabinet?”

“It’s a roll-top desk,” she says. She tugs on the handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Don’t suppose one of the keys on his chain opens it?” Morse pulls them out of his pocket and steps over one more pile of books to try them in the ornate little lock.

“Ah-ha,” he smiles, finding success with a quiet _click_. He pushes the hood back and uncovers a workspace just as disorganized as the rest of Bailey’s flat. “Any sign of a diary, contact cards...?”

Trewlove hums, shuffling stacks of receipts and loose sheets of paper. She starts pulling out little drawers.

“Oh, bingo!” She pulls a sleek red journal out from underneath a notepad. “It’s an appointment book, but it’s outdated. 1967 to ‘68.”

“It’s better than nothing. I don’t see anything else of use in here.”

“Right.” Trewlove checks her watch. “We’d better go speak to the landlady now, if we want to catch Strong at the shop.”

A cursory sweep of the bedroom, bathroom and closet doesn’t turn up much. Morse finds Bailey’s luggage tucked up in the corner of the closet. Trewlove finds that all of the bedroom lamps had been unplugged, as well.

Mrs. Jones, the landlady, is waiting for them in the flat block’s common area. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and an expression that says the suspicious death of one of her tenants is just one item on a long list of inconveniences.

“He was polite, quiet,” she says, twisting a strand of black hair, “always said hello, though he wasn’t home much. Seemed like one of those honest, hard-working types.” Trewlove, dutifully taking notes, doesn’t even blink at the dramatic irony.

“Did he ever have visitors?” Morse asks.

“Not that I’d ever noticed. Like I said, quiet type.”

“Did he make any complaints about his electricity?” Trewlove asks.

“Not to me, though the building’s old as all hell. I wouldn’t be surprised if it went out now and then in some of the flats.”

“And when did you last see him?” Morse asks. 

“Hm, not for a while. Not since he delivered rent on the first, I think.” Trewlove tilts her head in thought.

“Did he pay with cash or by cheque?” she asks, pen hovering over her notes.

“Cheque, usually. Anything else, detectives?” She folds her arms over her chest, and Morse gets the sense she’s quickly losing patience.

“That’ll be all, Mrs. Jones, thank you very much for your time,” Morse says, pulling out his wallet. “Here’s the number for the Oxford station should you need to contact us.”

“Ta,” she replies, taking Morse’s card. He and Trewlove bundle back into their coats and set off down the street to the car.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” she says, hiding from the stiff river breeze behind her scarf.

“Yes,” Morse replies. “Where’s his chequebook?”

––––––––

The Slings and Arrows Bookshop is in a simple brick building on one of the main roads in Spitalfields. Morse and Trewlove stand across the street, taking in the storefront. 

“You’re positive he’s in there?” Morse asks.

“Ask me again, Morse, I’m begging you.”

“I want to be sure that you’re sure. And that you’re ready to meet the criminal you’ve been investigating for months.”

“I’m sure. This is my turf, now. And for the sake of this investigation, he’s not a criminal—he owns a bookshop. C’mon.” She leads the way, Morse right behind her, into the unassuming mob front.

It’s an older store, with aging wood flooring and dark red wallpaper. Books are practically pouring out of the overstuffed shelves, and sitting in stacks on chairs and on the floor. There are a few people milling about, browsing the aisles, which is a few more than Morse figured would be in a bookstore at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.

A college-age girl, or maybe even a teenager, stands behind the till, fiddling with her plaited hair.

“Can I help you?” she asks them. Trewlove flicks her eyes up to Morse, silently assuming the lead.

“Hello,” she says, approaching the counter. She shows the girl her warrant card, and Morse does the same. “I’m Detective Constable Trewlove, this is Detective Sergeant Morse. Is your employer in?”

“What’s this about?” the girl asks, eyes wide. 

“I’m afraid we need to speak to the owner, first. I’m sure he could explain afterward.” The girl considers Trewlove’s argument then nods.

“I’ll get him,” she says, stepping out from behind the counter and disappearing down one of the lines of shelves. 

She returns with a tall, broad, tawny-haired man in a navy roll-neck jumper.

“Ah, hello,” he says. “I’m the owner, Cecil Strong.” 

Morse had been expecting an older man, perhaps a little rough around the edges, to be heading the largest extortion scheme London’s seen in the last decade, but the man standing in front of him and Trewlove couldn’t be more than a few years older than himself. There’s an effortlessness to his appearance, his posture, that communicates an approachability that doesn’t sit well with Morse.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“DS Morse and DC Trewlove, Thames Valley Police,” Morse says. “Does Mr. Ian Bailey work here?”

“Yes,” Strong replies, “though he’s not in at the moment.”

“May we speak to you in private, Mr. Strong?” Trewlove asks. 

“Of course. We’ll go to my office.” 

Strong leads them to the back of the shop and up a set of narrow stairs. The second floor has another smaller selection of books, but they’re led into a modest office with simple but modern furniture—a minimalist desk, an assortment of abstract paintings on the wall, and a pair of teak armchairs.

“Sit,” Strong says, “make yourselves comfortable. I hope you don’t mind me smoking,” he adds, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his desk, “but I’m just gasping.” Morse has heard that line a thousand times, and he does mind, but the argument isn’t at all worth it.

Strong takes a long drag and blows the smoke out his nose.

“What’s this about Bailey, then? What’s piqued the interest of the Thames Valley Police?”

“Two days ago, Mr. Bailey was found dead in an historic Oxfordshire home,” Morse says.

Strong taps the dangling ashes into his ashtray and takes another long drag. 

“Oh my,” he says flatly. “So it was him.”

Morse thinks that he’s misheard him completely, but then Trewlove tilts her head again. “Sorry?”

Strong sighs and stares at the art on his wall. “I figured it was, given he stopped coming to work.”

“You knew he died?” Morse presses.

“I knew a tall ginger man killed himself out in the country, and I knew my tall ginger associate wasn’t anywhere to be found. Poor sod. One can put two and two together. Word gets around, you know, and I’m a well-connected man.” The cold, aloof way in which Strong speaks of Bailey’s death sends a chill through Morse.

“Actually, Mr. Strong,” Trewlove says, “we’re here on account of Mr. Bailey’s death being considered suspicious at this time.”

“Suspicious?” he says around the cigarette, eyes widening a fraction, “Why’s that?”

“We’re not at liberty to give specific details. Do you know of any connection between Mr. Bailey and Oxfordshire? Or a place called Newmont?” Morse asks.

“No, he never mentioned either. He kept to himself, mostly.”

“So you weren’t aware of anything troubling him? Any personal matters he sought to attend?” Trewlove adds.

“Personal matters? I don’t think he had personal matters to speak of. No, Bailey was just terribly...” Strong tilts his head side to side, choosing his words in a mockery of careful thought, “paranoid.”

“How so?” Morse prods. Strong lays piercing hazel eyes on him, so light they’re practically yellow, and a palpable, uneasy tension falls over them. Morse suddenly understands why the whole East End seems to have bent underneath the man’s influence.

“Our line of work can take its toll on the mind.”

“Selling books?”

“Being a businessman,” Strong calmly replies. His voice is like honey, or perhaps venom. His effortlessness, Morse realizes, from the jumper to the casually-slicked-back hair to the art hanging on the wall, is a simply the result of a practiced, calculated performance. It’s infuriating.

This is going nowhere fast. 

“Anything you can tell us could prove to be useful in finding his killer, Mr. Strong,” Morse says. 

“I’m afraid I’ve already told you everything I can. He was very private. He did what I asked him to, no more and no less. Though if I may speak completely honestly, Bailey is the last man I’d ever imagine getting himself killed. He’d sooner string himself up than end up a murder victim.”

“We believe he _was_ murdered, Mr. Strong,” Morse persists. “Our pathologist believes so, too.”

“Well maybe your pathologist got it wrong,” he sneers, golden eyes flashing.

“He didn’t,” Morse retorts.

“When did you see him last?” Trewlove interjects, steering the discussion back to fact-gathering. Strong smoothly lifts his gaze from Morse and switches it to her. As he does, the tension dissipates.

“Wednesday, nine o’clock, at the end of his shift. He didn’t say or do anything out of the ordinary. As far as I was concerned, he’d gone home and was going to be in the next morning. But he wasn’t.” He punctuates the end of his sentence by crushing the cigarette into the ashtray.

“May we see his desk?” she continues.

“Yes, fine,” he says with a wave of his hand. “He had a desk in the last room on the left down the hall. I’ll be with you in a moment, I’ve a phone call to make. If you could close the door behind you, please.” 

“Thank you.” Morse and Trewlove gather themselves up and step into the hallway, Trewlove pulling the door closed behind them.

“You go look his desk over, I’ll speak to the girl downstairs,” she mutters. 

“We should both speak to her,” Morse says, but Trewlove holds her hand up.

“Not with your temper like that. You nearly set him off in there, and I don’t need you snapping at a young girl or sabotaging the Yard’s whole investigation.” 

Morse raises his brow at her, a biting response already on his lips, but he’s in no mood for an argument. He clamps his jaw shut and starts walking down the hall. No longer being scrutinized by Strong, his anger is quickly fading, anyway.

The other office is small, covered in the same red wallpaper as downstairs, with two desks pushed up against opposite walls and separated by mismatched filing cabinets. Morse can immediately tell which desk belonged to Bailey.

Bailey’s workspace is just as cluttered as his flat. There are stacks of invoices, supply orders, a pad with scribbles of notes from phone calls, and plenty of other completely benign documents. Digging through the papers, pulling out the drawers and thumbing through files, it’s clear that what he’s looking for isn’t there—there’s no up-to-date diary, no chequebook, or even any evidence of their unsavory criminal doings.

The hairs on Morse’s neck stand up, and he suddenly feels eyes on the back of his head. He straightens up and sees Strong leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

“Find anything useful?” he asks. 

“Whose desk is this?” Morse gestures to the much tidier workspace.

“Percy. He’s the general manager. My right-hand man, if you will. He’s running an errand for me across town, but should be back this evening if you and your constable are still sniffing about then.” Morse doubts the man working directly beneath Strong will have anything more insightful to say.

“That won’t be necessary—I think we’re done here. Thank you for your cooperation.” Morse starts buttoning his coat and walking toward the door, not at all expecting Strong to remain exactly as he is, taking up the exit with his broad frame. For a brief moment, he assumes Strong will give up whatever show of bravado this is and let him pass. 

He really must stop assuming things. 

He stutters to a stop at the last second, inches away from Strong, and confronts the fact that he’s alone with a violent criminal, that Trewlove could already be waiting by the car, that Strong is nearly half a foot taller than him.

But Morse knows he won’t try anything, not right now. This is showmanship. 

Morse pulls his wallet out and holds up another one of his phone cards.

“You can reach me here, if you think of something. Unless there’s anything else I can do for you, Mr. Strong?” he asks lightly, eyes fixed on the wall across the way. 

An unbearably tense moment passes, punctuated by Strong plucking the card out of Morse’s hand.

“No,” he finally says, “I can’t imagine there is.” He steps away from the door, and Morse wastes no time in heading straight for the stairs.

He feels rather than sees Strong leering at him, and then it clicks. Strong wasn’t threatening him. He’s taunting him. Gloating. Morse could kick himself. He’s lying, hiding something—of course he is—but just what that is remains a mystery to Morse.

Behind him, Strong says, “Mind how you go, _detective_.”

Morse pretends he doesn’t hear him as he thunders down the steps.

–––––––

According to Trewlove, the till girl gave her the same story as Strong and Mrs. Jones—Bailey was quiet, if a little jumpy at times, and mostly just kept his head down. The more people they spoke to, the less Morse believed that Bailey was at all cut out for a life of extorting small businesses in the impoverished East End.

Given their meager findings and lackluster witness statements, the case is starting to look like a gruesome, convoluted robbery with a half-hearted attempt to cover up evidence and little to no payoff. But that wasn’t good enough. As far as Morse is concerned, they hadn’t made any progress at all. 

After stopping at a chippie and devouring their food in the warmth of the Ford—Morse couldn’t remember if he’d had anything substantial to eat yesterday—Trewlove says she’d like to pay a visit to one of the shops she knew Bailey had spent a good deal of time in, and which was undoubtedly caught up in Strong’s scheme.

“Perhaps they’ll feel more comfortable speaking about a _dead_ gangster,” she says.

“Can’t hurt to try,” he replies.

Coleman-Humphries Menswear, an historic tailor straddling the London-East End border, is completely empty of customers when they arrive. The store is filled with shelves of designer shirts and trousers, display cases with all shapes and sizes of colorful ties, and mannequins modeling the latest styles of suits. 

Trewlove taps the bell on the countertop and it sends a single crisp, melodic _ding_ echoing around the room.

A man steps out from a curtain behind the till, sporting white-blonde hair in a perfectly-gelled coiffure and a smart, olive-colored suit that makes his pale skin glow.

“Oh, hello,” he grins, “good afternoon to you.”

“Are you the owner, sir?” Trewlove asks.

“Herbert Humphries, my dear,” he replies, reaching over the counter to shake her hand. “How might I help you, today?”

“I’m Detective Constable Trewlove and this is Detective Sergeant Morse. Thames Valley Police is investigating the death of a local businessman. We’re putting together a timeline of his movements from the last week, and we understand he frequented your store.”

“Oh good lord,” he says. “Nothing unsavory, I hope?”

“Evidence would suggest it to be murder, Mr. Humphries,” Morse says, approaching the counter. Humphries’ eyes very nearly bug out of his skull. “Do you know the name Ian Bailey?”

“I can’t say I do, off the top of my head.”

Trewlove pulls her notebook from her coat and slips Bailey’s headshot out from underneath the cover.

“Do you recognize him?” she asks, laying the photo on the counter. “He had red hair, if that helps.” Humphries peers down at the photo, and Morse swears he flinches.

“Oh yes, I do recognize him. Ian Bailey, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Trewlove lays another slip of paper down. “We have a receipt here for a Coleman-Humphries suit he picked up just last week.” Trewlove must have pulled it out of Bailey’s desk in his flat. She’s two steps ahead of Morse today.

“Ah, that’s Stephen’s handwriting. I think he’ll be far more helpful than me. Just let me go and–,”

“No need, Herb, I heard you,” comes a much deeper voice. Another man emerges from the back room, wearing an equally fashionable tan suit that stands out against his warm umber skin. “I’m Mr. Coleman, detectives,” he continues, shaking Trewlove’s and then Morse’s hands. He glances at the receipt and the photo on the counter. “Ah, yes, I remember this fellow. Bailey.” He says the name like it’s something he found on the bottom of his shoe.

“Was he a frequent customer?” Morse asks.

“He had a couple of suits made up here, and I believe I once fitted a pair of trousers for him.”

“And how would you describe him?” Coleman’s eyes flicker toward Humphries for a fraction of a second. He clears his throat.

“Dull, is what I would say. He was quite simple. Nothing extraordinary about him.”

“Did you ever have a conversation with him?” Trewlove asks.

“Of course,” Coleman says, “I try to make small talk with all our customers. Keeps them relaxed while I stick them with pins upon pins.” He seems content to leave it at that.

“What did you talk about?” Trewlove prods.

“Mundane things mostly. The weather, the news. Like I said—dull, simple.”

“Was he acting at all differently last week? Did he say anything that stuck out, or seem nervous?” Morse cuts in.

“I don’t think—actually, now that you mention it, he—he said he was considering a holiday.”

“A holiday?” Morse repeats.

“Yes, that’s definitely what he said.” Morse gives him time to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“Did he say where he wanted to go?” This conversation is like pulling teeth. If he wanted to spoon-feed suspects, he would have become a solicitor.

“He asked if I’d ever been to the Mediterranean. I told him I’d been to Italy and Spain, and that both countries are lovely and temperate this time of year. He seemed chuffed enough to hear that.”

“Did he ever mention Oxfordshire? Or a place called Newmont? That he might travel there?” Coleman purses his lips, thinking for a moment.

“No, never. Not to me. Herb?”

“Nor me.”

A beat, then Trewlove snaps her notebook closed. Morse agrees with her.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he says. “I think that will be all.”

“Best of luck, detectives,” Humphries says. Coleman wastes no time with goodbyes, ducking back behind the curtain.

As they seat themselves once again in the Ford, Morse lets out a sigh that practically fogs up his window. “For someone who claims to make a lot of small talk, he didn’t have much to say to us.”

“He said enough,” Trewlove replies, unwinding her scarf. “Do you think Bailey was trying to disappear? To sail away to Monaco or Greece and leave London behind?”

“Possibly, in the near future. But all of his possessions were in his flat. If that’s what his plan was, he hadn’t kicked it off with a daytrip to Newmont.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to stave off a headache he knows is lurking around the corner. “We’ve yet to find anything directly connecting him to Oxford. I’m not even sure his holiday planning has anything to do with it.”

“I think there’s one thing I’m sure of.” 

“What’s that?”

“He absolutely did not pay that receipt for his suit.” She smirks out the front windscreen, and Morse can’t hide his own smile as he turns the engine over.

\-------

He’s staring at the beginnings of their case map—a map of the Cotswolds with Newmont and the village of Salford circled in pen; photos of Bailey from his file, the crime scene, and the morgue; a list of their current “unofficial” suspects from the day’s interviews; all thumb-tacked to a corkboard that’s leaning precariously against the station’s windows—repeating facts and conversations in his head, trying to forge connections together, when a hand holding a cup of tea appears in front of him.

“Morse.” He blinks, sees that the hand belongs to Trewlove and that the tea seems to be for him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, appreciating the warmth of the cup in his hands which pulls him back to the present. The headache he'd been trying to delay has long since settled itself right behind his eyes. Thinking was quickly becoming a feat of endurance. Trewlove leans against the desk next to him, sipping her own tea. The sun had gone down a while ago, and the rest of the nick with it. “Were you able to reach your sergeant?”

“He said that Strong was, without a doubt, in London on Wednesday night.”

“And the manager, Percy Urwin?” She nods. “Damn. Of the bunch, they’re the ones I want to prioritize.”

“You’ve no confidence in the tailors’ capacity for murder?”

“I’m still not very confident in any of these people as fully realized killers.”

“If my business was being extorted,” she says, folding her legs underneath her on the desk and cradling the teacup in her lap, “I wouldn’t be too pleased with one of the masterminds of the operation waltzing around and stealing my goods on top of it all. A robbery for a robbery?”

“Sure, there’s motive, but the place and the method are so convoluted. And it’s more personal than a robbery. Whoever killed Bailey wanted him to suffer. He died of fright, for God’s sake. If I’m confident in anything, it’s that he knew his killer.”

“And that the killer or Bailey, or perhaps both, knew of Newmont. Or Salford. Or both. This _is_ quite convoluted.”

He nods and finally takes a sip of his tea, thankful that Trewlove makes a strong brew.

“Still,” he adds, “make sure someone at the Yard keeps an eye on the tailors. No one’s above suspicion for now.”

“I’ll call them back in the morning. I have to give my governor an update as it is.”

“Perfect. You can do that while Inspector Thursday and I speak to one of the project managers at OPS.”

“Wasn’t Strange meant to do that today?”

“He was, but he spent the day chasing a lead for a string of robberies he’d already been investigating. He suspects they're connected, but he said no luck today.”

“Pity.”

“Good work, today. I have a better feeling about tomorrow, though. There’s a missing link involving that house.” He stands and rolls his neck from side to side—when had he last moved from this spot?—and drains his tea. “Walk out together?”

“Oh, are you leaving?”

“Are you staying?” He throws his coat on and she nods. “It’s Saturday, Trewlove.” 

“I know. I won’t stay long, I just can’t let the paperwork get away from me. Perhaps I’ll take a look at Bailey’s calendar, too. Actually, while I’m here–”

“You’re not worried about your other investigation, are you?” She stares down into her empty cup. 

“My whole career as a detective thus far has been documenting Bailey’s movements, building his profile. I can’t afford any missteps, not now.”

“There won’t be any. We’ll solve this.” The words come easily because he believes them. The last thing Trewlove deserves after returning to Oxford is for her hard work to go to waste. She looks back up at him and nods.

He holds his hand out for her empty cup, adding, “Normally I would stay, but I actually have plans tonight. Well, I say plans.”

“You?” she grins back. “Where are you going on a Saturday night?”

\-------

The Oxford Scholars Choral Association always conducts its dress rehearsals on the Saturday evening before a concert. Morse is in his spot ten minutes before their scheduled start time, music book sitting open in his lap. He’d hoped to find a moment’s peace to think back over the day’s interviews, to see if the change in scenery could jolt a connection between the negligible evidence, but then he catches the conductor, of all people, walking straight for him.

“Evening, Morse,” he smiles, bracing his hands against the church pews. Mr. Franklin is a lean fellow with poofy salt and pepper hair, but the old wood still creaks beneath his weight. “I don’t suppose I could ask a favor of you?”

“How can I help?” TOSCA felt like the one constant in his life that remained completely separate from work. No one ever asked about cases, or if he’d eaten that day, or why he sometimes showed up to rehearsal with a black eye or disappeared for four months at a time.

He’s expecting a request to pass out updated sheet music or to greet guests at the door next week.

“I’ve just been informed that Andrew McCabe has been called home up north for a family emergency and won’t be performing with us on Wednesday. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, what’s one voice gone from a mix of six or seven, but he was one quarter of our chamber choir.” It’s then that Morse notices the spare copy of _O Magnum Mysterium_ in Franklin’s hand.

Oh good God. 

“Will you please fill in for him?”

_“Me?”_

“Yes, _you_.”

This is the last thing Morse could have imagined happening this week, or perhaps ever. He has _no_ excuses prepared.

“But Andrew McCabe is a tenor—I sing baritone.” Of the many he could have pulled out of thin air, that wasn’t at all convincing.

“Oh, it’s not that high, Morse. Look, you’ve been with this group for several years, and in that time, I’ve learned that you have a steady, _dependable_ voice. You blend beautifully but I can always pick out your rich, warm timbre.” Morse has never had so many compliments tossed at him at once. He knows Franklin is laying it on thick, but he feels his face flushing all the same.

“And I _know_ you know the piece, I’ve seen you flinch when there’s an off-color note.” _That_ , Morse can’t deny. But he’s never been a soloist of any sort. He’d never delude himself by going out of his way to audition for a piece. He hates calling attention to himself. 

So he’s stunned when the words tumble out of his mouth, “Alright. I’ll do it.”

He must hate himself even more than unwanted attention. But Franklin’s grin seals the deal.

“Wonderful! Thank you, Morse. I promise you won’t regret it.” _Only time will tell_ , he thinks wryly. “Come, come, we’ll start with the chamber piece, then, and get you properly acquainted with it.”

The rest of rehearsal is relatively painless—he _does know_ the piece, and the other three singers in their quartet are quite talented—but the minute Morse steps outside into the cool air and reality, his headache returns full-force along with a wash of overthinking.

There’s a man dead in the morgue, a killer on the run, an East End gangster with Morse’s card in his pocket, and now he has to spend mental capacity on his choir, of all things.

The bus ride is a blur of remembering that _practicing_ is far different than _performing_ , TOSCA is supposed to be _relaxing_ ; and yet, he’d like to make enough progress on the case so that he isn’t held up on Wednesday night and made to disappoint Mr. Franklin, even though he signed up with the choir for _personal fulfillment_ when he first came back to Oxford, not as a favor to anyone else.

With his luck, on Wednesday night, a PC will find Bailey’s overnight bag tossed into a creek on the Newmont property, or someone will try to write a fraudulent cheque down in London using Bailey’s account. Perhaps it _is_ one of the tailors trying to steal their money back; perhaps it’s Strong trying to insure his scheme from the malpractices of a sloppy, wanderlust-filled associate.

He walks up his drive with an insistent fluttering in his chest, heart thumping all the way up his throat, head pounding. Had he eaten since lunch? Not that he had much in, anyway. Surely nothing a glass of scotch won’t fix, but irritating all the same.

He hardly blinks at his home lit up like a Christmas tree in the night.

He really must call the electrician.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER LIST:  
> • Ian Bailey—victim  
> • Cecil Strong—owner of Slings and Arrows bookstore  
> • Percy Urwin—manager of Slings and Arrows  
> • Mrs. Jones—Bailey's landlady  
> • Herbert Humphries & Stephen Coleman—London tailors  
> • Mr. Franklin—TOSCA conductor
> 
> \---
> 
> FOOTNOTES:  
> • Kodachrome photos from an amateur photographer of the East End in the 60s:  
> https://tinyurl.com/y8oms2pj
> 
> \---  
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr! @welcometo-yourworld  
> \---
> 
> Also has anyone seen Cathy Hay on YouTube? She makes such lovely videos about overcoming mental blocks re: creativity and starting personal projects! (She talks specifically about sewing, but it's universal advice and helped me finish this chapter <3): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owh2nvhKMYU


	4. House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a beefy chapter, so I've split it in two to give y'all the chance to pause in the middle. If you find yourself needing a break, just read to the bold heading :-)
> 
> The universe also delivered unto me a vision the other day reminding me that the Jag as we knew her disappeared in season 6, replaced instead by a Ford Zephyr. I've retroactively replaced "Jag" with "Ford" in the first few chapters and Morse will be driving [this](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/CJSsQlqTjqDCywJ6eSwiWEK6I-jPcAiCLjacl3mcd7ZesizTbUyiQl34i_Y0Wsniv011N2t3X2OQpgzAH7sRs9slbACW4qApazkOQl4VcCyu3hmT_rQ) bad boy around now.
> 
> RIP JAG: 1965-1969

“I was told it was a _robbery_.” Dr. Geoffrey Godwin sits behind his ornate wooden desk surrounded by the ephemera that one typically accumulates while employed as a history don at St. Sebastian’s College. Papers and books obscure every available surface; a typewriter sits underneath the wide window covered in decorative, diagonal muntins that overlooks the college’s small courtyard; a small globe stands on the corner of Godwin’s desk, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase provides a scholarly backdrop.

“It seems there may have been an attempt at one,” Morse says as delicately as his freshly-blooming headache will allow, “but then Ian Bailey was killed. Whether or not he was the robber is yet to be determined.”

He and Thursday are sitting across from Godwin, conducting the interview Strange was supposed to have done yesterday. He can’t tell if the headache is from the frigid weather, the stony silence he and Thursday sat in during the car ride from the station, or another restless night’s sleep.

“Good heavens. Oh, well I’m just _gutted_. That poor man.” Godwin has an over-the-top posh accent and a loud, grating, gravelly voice. 

“I take it you’ve never met Mr. Bailey, then,” Thursday says.

“No, absolutely not,” he waves his hand. “I’ve no idea who the chap was.” 

“What is it exactly you do with OPS, doctor?” Thursday continues. “How involved are you with the property?”

“Well, as Project Manager of the Newmont House Restoration and Preservation Venture, I oversee a great many duties varying from creating and enforcing the long-term project timeline, working with contractors on necessary structural projects, and playing my part in historical documentation by cataloguing the items in the home.” Thursday nods with a patience Morse cannot fathom. Morse decides his headache is definitely Godwin’s fault.

“We’ve yet to establish a clear motive for robbery—can you think of any reason why someone would break into Newmont? Does it have a history of being a target?”

Godwin hums, folding his hands together and balancing his chin on them. “There are a number of artifacts that would pique the interest of anyone with an historical inclination—but they’re not _that_ valuable. They’re mostly family heirlooms, some old portraits and antique furniture. Memorials to a bygone era. Valuable obviously to the insular act of preserving that specific family’s place in history, but not necessarily worth much for an outsider’s personal financial gain.”

Morse jumps back in. “Who has keys to the property? Or ready access of any sort?”

“Myself, obviously,” Godwins replies, as if the mere idea of him not having a key was insulting. “The contractors, but only temporarily—their keys are given back when their contracts expire. Our Chief Historian, Carol Seymour, and the President of OPS, Lawrence Rockwell.” 

Morse finally starts taking notes at the mention of names. “Do you have any contractors working at the moment?” 

“No, we haven’t. The last project finished about six months ago. Replaced some terrible rotting in some of those old wooden staircases.”

“And when was someone from OPS last on the property?” Morse continues, flicking his pen against his open notebook, eager to move onto the next phase of the day.

“Oh it’s been two or three months. We’re spread a little thin, right now, and the work has been slow. I’ve personally been quite busy this term—I was hoping to go back once all the students go home for the holidays.” Morse rights that down, too. Satisfied, he looks to Thursday. 

“We need an OPS representative to come with us to the property and see if anything’s been taken or damaged. Would you like to–”

“Inspector, I’d be _delighted_ to show you all of Newmont’s beauty and history,” Godwin beams, planting his hands firmly on the desk. “I presume you’d like to go today?”

“That’d be preferable, doctor.”

“I do have a meeting with a pupil in—oh dear, in just a few minutes–”

The words are no sooner out of Godwin’s mouth when someone knocks briefly on his door and opens it.

“Dr. Godwin? I know I’m—oh, I’m so sorry, am I interrupting?”

A young woman with dark hair cropped to her chin and dark-framed glasses half-steps into his office.

“Ah,” Godwin smiles, pushing himself to stand, “here’s said pupil. Gentlemen, this is Margaret Walker. One of my preservation protégés, if you will. Come in, come in, Margaret. These gentlemen are with the police. We were just discussing Newmont.”

Morse and Thursday stand as well, Thursday tipping his hat and Morse flashing a polite smile.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Walker,” Thursday says genially. “We were just about to leave.” He turns to Godwin, who’s fumbling with the glasses on the chain around his neck. “Can you meet us at three o’clock, doctor?”

“Yes, three o’clock, that’s splendid,” Godwin says. “Until then, Inspector. Sergeant.” Morse and Thursday start toward the door, but Margaret holds a hand out.

“It’s awful what’s happened. I hope you find whoever did this,” she says. “Newmont is a beautiful place with a rich history. It’s a shame it’s in the spotlight for something so horrid.”

“You heard what happened?” Thursday asks.

“Do you know much about Newmont?” Morse adds.

“Erm—well, I think the whole school knows by now. You know how students gossip,” she says. She speaks very earnestly. Morse recognizes the bright spark of an ambitious young student in her eyes. “And I occasionally volunteer with OPS. I’m pursuing a history degree, but I hope to have a career in building preservation. Dr. Godwin introduced me to OPS in one of my tutorials.”

“Right,” Thursday says. “Thank you, Miss Walker. Three o’clock, Dr. Godwin.”

“Until then, detectives,” Godwin nods, his rumpled black hair falling further out of place.

Thursday and Morse see themselves out. They keep a brisk pace against the cold across the courtyard all the way to the car.

“Seems we don’t have as tight a lid on this as I thought,” Thursday finally says, shutting himself into the Ford. “Godwin is quite a character. As an insider, I sure hope he has nothing to do with gossip spreading across the college.”

“I can’t see it being him—he was told there was a robbery, but Miss Walker seemed to understand that someone had died.” Morse turns the engine over and eases out of their parking spot.

“I didn’t see much of Strange, yesterday,” he continues, desperate to avoid another tense drive. “How is he getting on with those robberies?”

“That’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Morse pulls onto the main road and lifts an eyebrow at Thursday. “What is?”

“Things have taken a turn of sorts in his findings, and the ACC is getting involved. Don’t go telling anyone, but this seems to be a coordinated attack on city officials. Starting tomorrow, Strange and I will be focusing on the robberies, and I’ll be needing you to take charge on this case.”

Morse is waiting for the catch—with a trip to London already in his report and a hundred theories rattling around in his head, he’s already doing most of the brain work _and_ leg work on this case. He and Trewlove are even the dedicated case officers.

“I need you to keep your wits about you. Focus on the facts. No...flights of fancy, or digging too deep into this historical business.”

There it is.

“We’re short on evidence as it is, but I’ll only pursue inquiries with plausible ties to Bailey.” _Plausible_ at least gives him his own _plausible_ deniability when he inevitably pursues inquiries too _implausible_ for Thursday’s liking. Of course Morse never goes out of his way looking for them. He simply does as each case requires. “You know as well as I that Trewlove won’t let me stray too far from what’s sensible.”

“I’m serious, Morse. I don’t want any nonsense. Just keep your head down and use that brain of yours for good, straightforward police work.” A beat. “I’d wager Trewlove’s far smarter than you, anyhow.”

Morse huffs, the momentary tension quickly dispelling. “I wouldn’t dare argue otherwise.”

\-------

The Oxfordshire countryside looks the same as it did last Thursday morning—brown, brown, grey, brown, all flying by the window in a blur. Morse twists around in the passenger seat to glance back at Trewlove. “How are you coming along with that?”

As soon as they had arrived back at the station, Morse had one of the PCs on duty start work on confirming alibis for the other members of OPS. It hadn’t taken long to call them all, early as it was on a Sunday morning, and all alibis were confirmed by eleven o’ clock.

Trewlove had spoken to her governor in the meantime, and was assured that the Yard would keep an eye on Mr. Coleman and Mr. Humphries along with Cecil Strong and Percy Urwin. 

All that had been left to do until they set out for Newmont was to crack open Bailey’s old calendar. What, at first glance, had appeared to be a calendar, at least.

“I’ve just started March. It’s an exceedingly dramatic read so far. He’s novelized every mundane moment of every single day.” She flicks to the next page and sighs with her shoulders. “Very embellished. Almost Dickensian.”

“‘Best of times, worst of times’ Dickensian?”

“More alike in word count than theme, but he has done his fair share of philosophizing as well. Practically nonsensical. Definitely thinks himself the hero of his own story.”

“You two sound more like scholars than police,” Thursday quips flatly.

Morse scoffs silently, an eyebrow lifting up in mock disdain. Trewlove smirks and rolls her eyes. 

“Anything relevant, yet?”

“Morse, I promise I’m not hiding information from you.”

“I’m just asking.”

“And I’ll tell you as soon as I find something.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

He concedes the final word to Trewlove and turns back around. 

“Nearly there,” Thursday says. “Just need to pick up Strange from the Salford nick.”

\-------

Godwin is waiting for them at the front gate, his hair whipping about his head in the wind.

“Ah, I see we’ve brought the reinforcements,” he calls.

“Detective Sergeant Strange,” Thursday gestures, “and Detective Constable Trewlove in from Scotland Yard.”

Godwin claps his hands together. “Splendid! Truly a delight to meet you both and to have this opportunity to explore Newmont together.” 

“I’m sure we would extend similar gratitudes under more favorable circumstances,” Trewlove says simply. Thursday, Strange and Morse all hold passive faces. Godwin’s smile fades.

“Right. Yes. Well, no use dawdling. In we go.” He turns and pushes the gate open. The padlock Morse had found on the ground is now swinging sadly from the gate, haphazardly tied through a rung on its chain, unable to perform its only function.

Godwin leads their group down the gravel drive. They don’t even make it halfway before he jolts to a stop, shoes sending bits of rock skittering away. He fumbles with the glasses around his neck, lifting them to his face.

“Is this our culprit’s point of entry?” he asks, pointing at the shattered window. He starts off toward it before anyone can answer him, and they’re left with no choice but to hurry after him.

He stops again, right beneath the window. He gazes at it, then spins back around.

“Why, this exact window’s been broken before!”

A wave of frustration swells in Morse’s chest. He draws a hand down his face, as if doing so will physically block any number of rude remarks waiting to make themselves known.

“I thought you said the house didn’t have a history of robbery,” Thursday says. 

“When was the last time?” Morse tags on. 

“Well, it was about a year ago. We didn’t think much of it then. Thought it to be simple vandalism. As far as we could tell, nothing had been taken or disturbed. Nothing of...”

“Yes?” Morse presses.

“Nothing of value, anyway.”

“So perhaps this _wasn’t_ Bailey’s first visit to Newmont,” Strange concludes. 

“You said last year?” Trewlove pipes up. “Can you remember the exact date?”

“I’m afraid not—it was cold, and term was still in session, so perhaps last October or November.” Morse watches Trewlove nod stiffly. If she’s thinking what he is, Bailey very well may have documented his breaking and entering in his damned little book. 

A heavy silence, broken up only by the wind rustling the trees in the distance, falls over them.

Godwin clears his throat. “Um, well, better see inside, no?”

The interior is darker, colder and more oppressive than Morse remembers. Strange takes another look at the broken window from the inside while Godwin and Thursday start down the corridor at the far right end. He’s about to follow, but Trewlove is standing at the base of the central staircase, staring up at the cavernous foyer.

“Trewlove?” He steps up beside her. He’d nearly forgotten this is her first time seeing the house.

“It feels sad, doesn’t it?” she mutters. She stares upwards for a moment more, then looks at him. “This house. Could you imagine living here?”

“No,” he says. “I can’t. But there’s no use in musing.”

The floors creak and moan above them, drawing their attention back up.

“The wind,” she decides, though her dark eyes are uncertain.

“Oy you two,” Strange calls. He’s halfway down the hall, beckoning them along with a wave of his hand.

The four detectives very patiently move with Godwin from room to room as he digs through boxes, inspects paintings, and peeks underneath the tarps covering antique furniture, peppering him with more questions in between anecdotes about Jacobean masonry and eighteenth century textiles.

“Who lived here last?”

“A woman named Mrs. Dorsett. Or Dossett.”

“Do you have her contact information?”

“I’m not sure—Carol, Mrs. Seymour, probably has it on file somewhere.”

“When did OPS purchase the property?”

“In early ‘66, I believe. Or late ‘65. Sometime around then.”

They pass through the empty gallery and the sounds of their echoing footfalls sends a shudder down Morse’s back. When they open the doors to the dining room and Godwin flicks on the lights, he has to close his eyes against the memory of Bailey’s body startling the life out of him.

Winding around the back hallways of the house, they find themselves on the bottom landing of the narrow, claustrophobic stairwell Morse had found himself sitting on last week.

Godwin sighs, directing his gaze to the floor and settling his hands on his hips. “Ah, pity. This is where that poor construction chap died.”

A dull roar consumes Morse’s senses.

Thursday is halfway through a sentence when he snaps out of it, “–a very serious investigation, doctor,” but he gets the gist of it. Trewlove’s eyebrows have disappeared beneath the loose strands of her fringe. Strange’s face is blank except for his eyes blown wide in surprise.

“Another man was killed here?” is all Morse can grit out.

“I-I–” Godwin stutters–

“Did you not think that was worth mentioning earlier?” Thursday cuts back in. “When was this? Were there any witnesses?”

“Oh my good fellow,” Godwin says, easing his hands out like he’s placating a dangerous animal, “it was a horrible accident, just dreadful. He fell right over the top bannister, died on impact. Rot had made the railings completely unstable. There was an internal investigation conducted—terrible thing, but nothing so untoward as murder. It’s–it’s completely unrelated to our being here today.”

“I think we’ll determine if it’s related or not, doctor,” Strange states.

“We’d like his name and information, if it’s all the same to you,” Morse adds. “As well as the information for his contracting company.”

Godwin clenches his jaw, unable to decide which of them to look at.

“All in the name of a thorough investigation, Dr. Godwin. Must dot every I and cross every T,” Thursday drawls. He’s wearing a practiced expression Morse knows all too well—one that’s masking his disdain for an uncooperative sod.

“I didn’t mean for–I forgot, you see–” he stutters again.

“I suggest you do your best to jog that memory of yours next time we speak to you,” Thursday continues. “It’d be a shame if we turn up anything else of interest that you’ve forgotten. Until then, I think we’re done here. You can call the station tomorrow with that worker’s information. Mind how you go.”

Thursday tips his hat and leads them back the way they came. They emerge onto the front steps to find the landscape is dark and the temperature has dropped well below freezing. They’d spent over an hour in the house, relying on Godwin to notice if any singular heirloom had gone missing.

Thursday takes a deep, even breath. “Who’s hungry?”

**...And Home**

The Salford Inn is a quaint beacon of light in the freezing November night—six rooms for rent and a modest pub overflowing with people, even on a Sunday evening. Though unassuming on the outside, the interior is fit to burst with antiques of all sorts. Milk bottles and wooden signs sitting on shelves, crates stacked floor-to-ceiling along the back wall that’s covered in rusted old farming tools and spoked wheels that once adorned horse-drawn carriages.

Strange takes a long draft of his lager and lets the mug all but freefall back to the table. “I can’t believe that pompous prick Godwin—excuse my French, Shirl.”

Trewlove, hunched over Bailey’s diary, one hand fixed in her tied-up hair and the other resting possessively on the base of her wine glass, flicks her eyes up. “Nothing I haven’t heard before, Strange.” Morse eyes the plate of chips she hasn’t yet touched.

“That’s two deaths in that house in the last year,” he says. “Two that we _know_ of.”

“As clueless as Godwin may be, he said that the worker’s death was an accident. Construction is a dangerous business with plenty of risks,” Thursday says, lighting his pipe. “And in a 350 year old house? It’s not unreasonable, or impossible.”

“I just want to be sure. There’s too many variables still, too many loose ends, to allow any incompetence to cloud any connections to be made.”

“I’m agreeing with you, Morse. Of course we’ll look into it,” the DI adds. “Hell of a coincidence. Like I said, dotting Is and crossing Ts.”

Better than nothing. He’d prefer a moment’s quiet above all, but Morse is eager for the conversation to turn so he doesn’t have to relive Godwin’s useless contributions to their investigation in his head. He has never met a man so unsure of the details of his own job. Either the don is truly as scatterbrained as he seems, or he has his reasons to be obfuscating so many details.

As far as Morse is concerned, Godwin could be prime suspect material, connection to Bailey pending. He’ll get Trewlove’s thoughts later, out of earshot of Thursday.

Thursday turns to the senior sergeant. “How were the interviews this morning, Strange?”

Strange snatches one of Trewlove’s chips. “All the villagers I spoke to swear up and down they didn’t see Bailey. They’re not huge fans of the house or OPS, either. They’d rather see the place torn down than preserved. In fact, most of ‘em said–well–”

“Spit it out, Strange,” Thursday says.

“They all said no one in their right mind would go there. To the house.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s haunted,” comes a new voice. A broad-shouldered man with shaggy brown hair and a warm face nearly obscured by his beard approaches their table.

“So you’re the city boys lookin’ ‘round Newmont, eh? Terrible thing that’s happened.” Trewlove snaps her head up at that. “Oh, pardon me, Miss. I didn’t see you there.”

“Detective Constable Trewlove, Scotland Yard,” she says flatly, reaching across Morse to shake the man’s hand. 

“Apologies, officer,” he says, at least looking embarrassed. Thursday, Morse and Strange each take their turns introducing themselves.

“Who are you, then?” Thursday asks around his pipe.

“I’m the owner of this here inn. Billy Morgan.”

“You said Newmont is...haunted?” Strange says.

“Aye, anyone in Salford could tell you Newmont’s nowhere to find yourself at night. It’s a right hike to get out there in the first place, but nothing better to keep folks away than a bone-chilling wailing ringing out o’er the fields. I’ve heard it, so has my wife. I won’t go ‘round there ever again, God willing.”

Morse can’t believe what he’s hearing. As Trewlove continues reading, he finds himself looking over her shoulder and skimming along with her. All he can make out are far too many adjectives and run-on sentences.

Thursday sits up a bit straighter. “You been in Salford long, Mr. Morgan?”

“All my life. My parents owned this inn in their time, and their parents before them.”

“And has Newmont always been...” he gestures with his pipe, “haunted?”

“Long as my family’s lived here, sir, people swear they’ve seen the ghost of a young lady roaming the land out there.”

Morse presses his knuckles to his mouth.

“You didn’t catch sight of the victim, Ian Bailey, last Wednesday, did you? Red hair, big bloke, London man,” Strange asks. Morgan shakes his head.

“Where were you on Wednesday evening,” Morse says, “if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Had folks in here ‘til gone ten, then I turned in with the missus ‘round eleven, slept through ‘til seven.”

“And your wife?” Strange adds.

Morgan lets out a light-hearted huff. “This an interrogation? She was with me the whole time.”

Morse glances around the pub, which has been slowly emptying out around them. “Is she here now?”

“‘Fraid not—she’s up north this weekend with her sister. Left Friday afternoon. She’ll be back in the morning if you want to talk to her.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan,” Thursday says. 

Morgan smiles a toothy grin. “My pleasure. Enjoy your meals, officers.” And then he disappears into the kitchen.

Trewlove hums, twisting the stem of her wine glass.

“What is it, Shirl?” Strange asks.

“That’s the second urban legend I’ve heard this week. Silly, isn’t it? A sergeant at my station just told me the tale of the East End Bodysnatcher.”

“Let’s save that one for another day, alright constable?” Thursday says, sounding rightfully exasperated, folding his napkin up and tossing it on his plate.

“Haunted houses and ghost stories,” Strange chuckles. “It’s fantastic!”

“It’s _fantasy_ ,” Morse laments. “This is a murder inquiry, we’ve no time for ghost stories.”

“Chin up, Morse,” Strange chides. “Got to indulge the locals sometimes, eh?”

Thursday clears his throat. “Well, it sounds to me like either everyone in this village was lying to you, Strange, or Bailey didn’t set foot here last week. Must’ve found a ride straight from the train to the house.”

Strange nods in agreement. Morse frowns into his bitter.

Then Trewlove gasps.

“ _Look look look,_ ” she hisses, pushing Bailey’s diary into the middle of the table and tapping the open page. Thursday and Strange crane their necks to get a proper look while Morse leans in to read.

“ _Twenty-sixth of November, 1968. I spent hours walking around that old house_ ,” he reads aloud, “ _going through its rooms, walking among the aged furniture and ducking beneath cobwebs. A padlock on the gate is hardly proper security._

“ _There were still personal belongings packed up in boxes, some quite old and some quite new. But I found a diary in one. I’ve read it cover to cover. And it seems the rumors are true. According to its author, there is something hidden there. Something valuable. ‘Buried during the revolution’, it read. At least when the diary was written, back in 1890._ ”

Morse can’t help breaking out into an astonished grin. “Trewlove, you found it!”

“So Bailey was the robber last year,” Thursday concludes. “Well _done_ , constable.”

“But what’s it mean?” Strange asks. “Something valuable?”

“Could it be a treasure trove he was after? Hidden at the estate?” Trewlove posits. 

“Could be anything; but it’s of some value to someone,” Morse says. “It’s one thing for Oxford students to gossip about local urban legends, but I wonder how Bailey got wind of it down in London?”

“It says ‘revolution’ too,” Strange says, twitching the diary around to get a better look at it. “Which revolution do you reckon that is?”

Thursday starts packing away his pipe. “Take your pick, Strange, there’s been dozens of them. English Civil War–”

“The Glorious Revolution,” Trewlove says.

Thursday nods. “The American Revolution.”

“The Lincolnshire Rising,” Morse adds.

Thursday snaps the pipe’s case closed. “We’ve certainly got our work cut out for us. But let's call it a night. Dinner’s on me, alright? For working through the weekend.”

Trewlove takes the diary back, then starts shoveling the cold chips into her mouth as if they had just been set down. Morse and Strange both drain their drinks.

\-------

Morse is exhausted, and when he finally is able to shut his front door to the elements and take a moment to just close his eyes, he lets the blissful silence of his house buzz in his ears.

It’s nearing nine o’clock, and he _could_ go to bed, but he needs to clear his head or he’ll never sleep. He heard enough nonsense today to last him the rest of the year. Verdi should do the trick tonight. He’ll even wash the dishes, to keep his hands busy.

Eventually the music ends, the dishes are drying, and Morse can finally feel sleep tugging at his senses. He tosses the wet rag over the faucet, tucks the record back into its sleeve, and throws the sitting room into darkness as he turns the lights off.

He gets the last one, the little pull-chain lamp by the phone, and starts for the stairs.

As his foot hits the first step, he hears the unmistakable tick- _tick_ of the chain before the landing is flooded in golden light. He stares at the shadow he’s casting on the stairs, turns around and sees the lamp is most certainly on.

Without thinking, he storms over and yanks the cord out of the wall. He freezes, gripping the length of wire in his hand as the landing goes dark again. He ignores the parallel he’s just drawn to Bailey’s flat.

He is calling the electrician _tomorrow_.

\-------

“ _Have you any large appliances plugged into the same outlets as your lights?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Are your switchplates hot to the touch?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Do your lights emit a buzzing sound when turned on?_ ”

“No, but–”

“ _Have you noticed any strange odors or smelled something burning?_ ”

“I–no, the only strange thing is my lamps have been turning on when I’m not home.”

He knows Darlene from Oxford Power is just going through procedure by asking him the pedestrian questions, but he’s still agitated from yesterday. He’s running on less sleep than usual, and he’d rather dedicate his energy to the case than to house maintenance. He looks up as Trewlove settles herself against the desk across from him, holding Bailey’s diary to her chest and watching with an amused but kind expression. 

“ _Turning on?_ ” Darlene asks. Morse can _hear_ the skepticism. 

“Yes.” 

“... _Do you have any children, Mr. Morse?_ ”

“No, I live alone.”

 _"Does anyone else have regular access to your home?_ ”

“No, it’s not—look, I leave my house in the morning with all lights off and return in the evening to find them all on.” There’s silence on the other end of the line.

" _Are they connected to a timer?_ ” Morse pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, they’re not. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. Could someone please just come examine the wiring, or the breaker box?” He hopes that didn’t sound as desperate to Darlene as it did to him.

“ _Mr. Morse, there’s really nothing about the wiring or the breaker that would affect only the lights in your home and no other appliances_. _But we’ll send an electrician to make sure everything is as it should be. Let’s see—how does today at noon sound?_ ”

“That’s fine,” Morse says. He just wants answers. And to keep his electric bill from devouring all his earnings.

“ _Alright, then, that’s twelve o’clock on the books for Mr. E. Morse. Thank you for calling Oxford Power. Good morning._ ”

Morse hangs up with a sigh that agitates the stray papers on his desk.

“Good morning. House troubles?” Trewlove quips.

“You don’t know the half of it. What’ve you got?”

“I took this home with me,” she says, flicking through the diary, “and spent the night reading the rest of what he wrote between his first trip to Newmont through the end of last December to see if he mentioned the treasure again. And—well, the difference sort of speaks for itself.” She lands on a page toward the back of the book. “Here.” She hands it over.

Morse sees the difference before reading a single word.

The earlier entries were immaculately printed with single afternoons spreading out over pages and pages. As Morse flips from the first of December onward, he sees the paragraphs grow shorter, the handwriting more frantic, until the last few pages are practically illegible.

“Perhaps Cecil Strong was right. He wasn’t well, was he?” he asks.

Trewlove sighs. “And this was a _year_ ago. I could hardly read what he was writing at the end, but from what I can piece together, he did become very paranoid. Had the feeling he was being watched.”

“Didn’t the Yard start tailing him around then? Maybe they weren’t as covert as they thought.”

“I can’t say for sure, but it’s possible. I didn’t get involved until later.”

“Makes you wonder why he only came back now.” Morse shuts the book with a nod and hands it back to Trewlove. “Good work.”

“Thanks. What have we got on, today?”

“I’m going to visit Carol Seymour this afternoon. I’d like you to start building a profile on Godwin.”

She nods. “I’ll look into the contractor that died, as well. The front desk just sent up the info.”

Thursday’s door opens behind them, and he steps out behind Bright. He only offers them a quick nod and a “Morning,” before beckoning Strange to follow him toward the elevator.

“Good morning, sergeant, constable,” Bright says. Morse stands as he comes to a stop at his desk. “Nights received a call from a Mrs. Jones.”

Trewlove leans forward. “Bailey’s landlady?”

“Yes—she says she found a few things that may be of interest to our investigation while cleaning out his flat. I’ve already spoken to your governor, Trewlove, and arranged to have a Met officer box them up and bring them to Oxford on the 11:30 train.”

\-------

“This is not 'a few' things,” Trewlove says, breath rising in front of her face. Morse, arms folded tightly to his chest, shakes his head.

The boot of the Ford is packed with five cardboard boxes of things Mrs. Jones deemed to be “of interest.”

“Let’s worry about it back at the station.” He shuts the boot and rubs his hands together. “I’ll drop you off before I go meet the electrician.”

“Oh—actually, can I see your house? If it’s no trouble.”

He thinks for a moment as they get in the car. Thursday and Strange are out investigating the robberies. No one will mind their short absence.

“Sure. Why not?”

The drive from the train station is barely ten minutes. As he pulls the car into his driveway, Trewlove breaks into a bright smile.

“Ah, _Chalet Morse_ ,” she says. “It’s very...” she hesitates, taking in the splitting wood siding, overgrown garden and general disarray as they get out of the car. “Victorian,” she decides, and Morse huffs. “But how much do you love having your own place?”

“Not much at all right now, what with the faulty electric job,” he replies. “It’s probably costing me an arm and a leg.” They approach the front door and Morse tuts, pointing through the sitting room window. “See? Left the house with all lamps off, and the damn things keep turning back on,” he says, twisting the key in the lock and letting himself and Trewlove in. Not a few steps in, the phone rings.

“Morse,” he answers.

“ _Hello Mr. Morse, this is Darlene at Oxford Power. I tried reaching you earlier at your work phone but found no answer. We’re sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ve had to reschedule your appointment for tomorrow_.”

“Tomorrow?” he confirms, but the words have no sooner left his lips when a pointed creaking of floorboards directly overhead startles them into silence. It’s a steady, slow procession from one side of the room to the other. 

Footsteps. 

Trewlove stiffens and throws him a concerned glance. 

“There’s no one here now?” he adds, gaze turned upwards. He feels foolish for even asking, but he all but prays for an electrician to be stomping around upstairs. The alternative is almost too worrisome to contemplate.

“ _No, not at your address. But we can send someone ‘round for three o’clock, tomorrow_.” There’s a beat of silence saturated with sickening uncertainty, and then there’s the sound of a door slamming shut with a thunderous CRACK that rattles the glass in the windows.

The phone clatters to the floor and Morse races to the stairs.

“Morse!” Trewlove shouts, but he’s already emerging onto the second floor landing, whipping his head left and right in search of the intruder. All of the doors are wide open except for the master bedroom.

This is _his_ house. He’ll be damned to lose the little security he has.

He steals himself, marches forth and throws the door open.

All he finds is the mattress and a window shut tightly and locked against the cold.

There is no sign of an intruder.

He hurries back downstairs to check the rest of the windows, ducking in and out of the kitchen, the dining area, back to the sitting room. The first floor is just as secure. He paces, tugs at his ear, brushes a hand through his hair.

“Morse?” Trewlove tries.

“Hm?” he jerks his head up.

“Did you find...?”

“No. No, there’s—no one got in here. I’m sure it was just the wind.” He sighs, smooths his hair back down, tries to ignore his heart pounding against his ribs. “There’s plenty of patching up still needs done,” he adds. “Crooked door frames, loose hinges. You know the draughts old houses can whip up.” He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince more. Trewlove nods sympathetically. “C’mon.”

He leads the way out, buttoning his coat and setting the receiver back on its hook along the way. Trewlove dutifully watches on as he locks the front door, jiggles the handle—then as he presses his full weight into the door and rattles the handle within an inch of its life. Satisfied, he pockets the key, leads the way to the car and they get in without a word.

Trewlove hardly moves until they’re halfway back to the station.

“I couldn’t help but notice. In your sitting room—the lamp by the phone.”

“What about it?”

“You unplugged it.”

He sighs. “I know what you’re going to ask.”

She opens her mouth to speak, shuts it, opens it again.

“Why did you unplug it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Bloody electric.”

They pause at a red light, and Morse hazards a glance at Trewlove. Her dark eyes are trained intently on him.

“It’s an odd coincidence, both you and Bailey having electrical problems like that. Just with the lamps.”

The light turns, and Morse taps the accelerator a little too hard.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence?” she pushes.

“What else could it be?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER LIST:  
> • Ian Bailey—victim  
> • Cecil Strong—owner of Slings and Arrows bookstore  
> • Percy Urwin—manager of Slings and Arrows  
> • Mrs. Jones—Bailey's landlady  
> • Herbert Humphries & Stephen Coleman—London tailors  
> • Mr. Franklin—TOSCA conductor  
> • Dr. Godwin—OPS project manager  
> • Margaret Walker—history student  
> • Billy Morgan—owner of the Salford Inn
> 
> \---
> 
> FOOTNOTES:  
> • St. Sebastian's College is based on St. Edmund's Hall in the Morse/Lewis/Endeavour cinematic universe lmao
> 
> \---  
> I'm on Tumblr! @welcometo-yourworld  
> \---
> 
> Endless thank-yous for keeping up with my quarantine passion project. Your comments are always so sweet and funny and full of love for dear Shirley <3
> 
> I keep editing the outline for the back-half of this fic, and at one point I really had to crack open an Honest To God Textbook from a history course I took in college. A BOOK. (Edward Berenson's "Europe in the Modern World" if you're interested)


	5. Coincidence

Conducting an interview in someone’s home is so familiar to Morse now, it’s like a ritual.

Standing with his warrant card at the ready as the door is opened and he’s welcomed inside. The offer of tea, the polite refusal, being handed a cup of it anyway, always made too sweet; finally settling in the living room—a space that’s half-sitting area, half-study, judging by the stacks of books and the cluttered desk pushed up against the bay window—occupying opposite-facing chairs. Morse sets the tea down on the coffee table, untouched, with a courteous finality.

“How did you get involved with OPS, Mrs. Seymour?”

“Oh please, it’s Carol, dear,” she smiles. “I was a history teacher in one of the grammar schools for twenty-odd years, and I met Laurence—the president—at a conference. I started volunteering in 1961, had retired by ‘65, and I became chief historian in ‘66. And the rest is, as they say, history.”

Morse checks his notes. “So your appointment to chief historian came around the time that OPS purchased Newmont?”

“About then, yes. I assumed the role in May of that year, and the final sale of Newmont was organized in August.” Morse takes very careful notes now that he’s speaking to someone with a competent memory.

“And how exactly did this sale come about?”

“We were approached by the last owner, Violet Dossett. She couldn’t afford to maintain it any longer, and wanted to move into a flat here in the city.”

“I imagine an estate like that wasn’t cheap to purchase.”

“We’ve a few generous benefactors from all over Britain that made it possible, but our public fundraising has hit quite a wall.” She leans forward and braces her elbows on her knees, as if divulging a secret. “What I think we really need is a young, fresh approach, but the board is hesitant. Oh dear, but I’m rambling.

“Well, we negotiated a very fair price, considering the work that needed doing and our nonprofit status. It was awful that she had to sell at all. She was the last direct descendant of the family that acquired the land back in the 1760s. But she ended up gifting most of her belongings to us—to create an immersive experience in the home, when it’s ready to be opened to the public.”

“That’s quite the legacy,” he says. Then he frowns. “You said ‘was?’”

“Yes, unfortunately she passed away a couple of years ago. Died in her sleep. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What was it like negotiating with her?”

“Sergeant, it was _heartbreaking_. The poor woman hadn’t wanted to live there anymore for ages, but didn’t want to see her family home fall into the wrong hands. She was quite old, never married or had children. I expect, in the end, the loneliness was just killing her.”

The image of Trewlove taking in the dark, grim interior of the house flashes across his vision. _It feels sad, doesn’t it? Could you imagine living here?_

Walking through Newmont felt like stepping back in time, as if it hadn’t seen a living person in a hundred years. To think someone, an elderly woman with no family, had been living there as recently as three years ago was jarring.

“Surely someone was looking in on her from time to time?”

“I’m sure she found help where she needed it. _Someone_ in that little village must have had a good heart.” She punctuates the implications left unsaid by sipping her tea.

“Mrs. Seymour, from what we understand, Ian Bailey believed there to be something of great value buried on the property. Are you aware of any such rumor?”

“Oh, absolutely. Rumors _abound_ —at the colleges, especially. All those history students, you know. Everything and everyone, from buried treasure to Richard III, is apparently hidden on the grounds of Newmont. I’ve no clue who started them. I thought they were mostly harmless.”

“Is it possible there _is_ something buried there? Something that valuable? Something–”

“Something worth killing for, sergeant?” She cocks an eyebrow at him and sits up a bit straighter. “I’ll admit that our more in-depth historical research has recently fallen to the backburner, but we haven’t found a hint of proof of a buried treasure.”

“Dr. Godwin mentioned as much when we spoke to him yesterday.” Seymour purses her lips and examines her tea with a _hmph_. Morse lets her simmer with her thoughts, taking a moment to scribble nonsense in his notebook. 

“It’s just ironic that Geoffrey would say such a thing. He’s spent the least time out of anyone attending to his OPS work in the last year. I was just telling my husband, he’s far more preoccupied with writing his book about historical preservation than he is with preserving history.”

“His book?”

Seymour nods. “Did he not mention it to you? It’s all he ever talks about. Even though he’s the Newmont project manager, he’s “delegated” most of his research to me. I have other projects to work on, you know, I can’t dedicate all my time to one house.” She gestures to the boxes stacked by her desk. “That’s just overflowing from my actual office. I don’t even have room for it all.”

“Is his book about Newmont and Mrs. Dossett’s life there?”

“That’s but a small part of it—it’s mostly jargon-y nonsense about the history of modern historical preservation.” 

“Just a few more questions—are you aware of any connections between Newmont and a war? More specifically a revolution?”

“A revolution?” She “Revolution...It rings a bell. I’ll tell you what—I’ll have a look through my files tonight, and I’ll even make copies of some things for you. I can drop them off at your station in the morning.”

“I’d appreciate that. You’d be saving us a lot of time.” 

He pauses to carefully thread the words of his next question together. He doesn’t even want to ask.

“Er...The villagers seem to think the property is haunted.”

She smiles. “Every old house has its ghost story. Newmont is no different.”

“Any idea when this rumor started?”

“That story could be as old as the house itself, sergeant. Sightings of a woman roaming about the gardens, wailing all night long.” There is a romantic glint in her eye that Morse can’t at all sympathize with.

“You know there’s no such thing as ghosts, Mrs. Seymour.”

“I wasn’t trying to suggest otherwise.” She takes another sip of tea. “I’m a historian. In my experience, ghosts are only as real as people want them to be, and people often see only what they want to.”

“I suppose your research hasn’t gone far enough back to pinpoint the exact source?”

“On the contrary, dear.” She sets her tea down, wanders over to her desk and lifts a lid off one of the boxes. Morse stands as well and joins her. “The villagers are all very confident in their oral histories, so to speak. Newmont’s past is relatively free of tragedy and darkness, but one woman wasn’t so lucky.” 

She pulls a manila folder out and starts leafing through letter-sized black and white photographs, some quite blurry, others over- or underexposed. Photos of Newmont, Morse notes—the columns at the front gate, the hedges, the garden and the shed around back.

“These are from one of my solitary trips to the property. I’m trying to learn how to use my camera for documentary purposes. Bloody brilliant technology we have these days, but I’m afraid I’m all thumbs. There we are. One of the clear ones.” She slides a photograph out and lays it on the desk. It’s of a small gravestone, barely larger than a cinder block, and weathered by time and nature almost beyond recognition. 

“ _Marion Wells_ ,” Morse reads. “ _3 March 1763 to 2 March 1792_.”

“Died a day short of 29,” Seymour says. “She was a maid, or housekeeper, something of the sort.”

“She’s the woman the villagers believe is haunting the grounds?” 

Seymour nods. He picks up the photo to study it closer, careful not to leave fingerprints.

“How did she die?” he adds, though he’s unsure why he asks at all. The woman died 180 years ago. She’s the subject of a ghost story that’s just getting in the way of the investigation.

“According to the stories, it was suicide. She hung herself in the first floor dining room.”

“At—at the back of the house—with the tapestries, and the windows facing the garden?” She nods.

He stares at her in disbelief. Trewlove’s voice floats through his mind again.

_Do you think it’s a coincidence?_

“This is according to the stories, though?” He presses. She nods again. “You believe them?”

“It’s really all I’ve got to go on. I don’t have any written documents to confirm or deny it.” She finds a spare folder and tucks away the lone photo for him. “This is Salford’s own oral history, sergeant. What reason would they have to invent a sad story like that?”

\-------

Morse pauses at the bottom of the sprawling stone stairs outside the station, ducks around the corner and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. It’s barely two o’clock. Far too early for a glass of scotch by work standards—well, _his_ work standards. A smoke will have to suffice. He lights one with his cheap plastic lighter and pulls a harsh, quick drag, barely letting the smoke in before pushing it all back out. 

It’s not even enjoyable. The damn things smell awful and the dryness in his throat afterwards is a nuisance, but he just needs something for his hands to do that’s not pulling on his hair or tugging at his shirt cuffs until the seams begin to fray, something for his brain to focus on that’s not the startling number of coincidences coming to light the longer he spends with this case.

It’s at least a far more convenient habit than running to the pub. He’d learned that during the week of hours-long interrogations after Wicklesham. Stealing into the hallway for a smoke was an easy out when his composure started to slip or his temper began to flare or he’d wrung several pencils to the point of snapping.

After a few shaky draws, his final pull is longer and steadier, his lungs burning as his hands ache from the cold air. As soon as Thursday is back he’ll tell him all about Godwin’s book plans. It’s the most concrete lead they have.

He stamps out the mostly-whole cigarette and makes his way inside the station.

The main floor of CID is practically vacant. Trewlove is among the absent.

His face must be betraying his thoughts again because as he hangs up his coat and sets down the folder from Seymour, one of the young constables—Painter, rapidly typing away at his desk—offers, “She’s in conference room B.” 

“With whom?” Were Thursday and Strange back early?

Painter pauses, face scrunched up. “The books.”

Morse decides he’ll probably be better off just seeing for himself.

The sight in conference room B doesn’t leave him feeling that much better off.

Trewlove is hunched over the conference table and writing on a legal pad, the sleeves of her olive green roll-neck pushed up past her elbows. Spread out across the length of the table are stacks upon stacks of books. She looks up mid-scrawl when Morse shuts the door behind him.

“Oh good, you’re back.” She jumps up and beckons him over to one of the boxes at the end of the table.

“What–”

“Mrs. Jones found the contents of _this_ particular box all stuffed inside Bailey’s ice box.” Paranoid, indeed. She starts pulling items out and laying them in a neat row: a handgun, spare ammunition, a few bundles of cash–

“His _chequebook_ ,” Morse says, taking it right out of Trewlove’s hand. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, snatching it back and laying it down. “Given what we read in his diary and the fact that he wasn’t burgled, I think we can scratch the tailors from the suspect list.”

“Agreed. Are those–?”

“Travel brochures.” She shuffles through the stack of pamphlets like she’s flipping through her morning post. “Italy, Monaco, Spain, Greece.”

“Very Mediterranean.”

“Quite.”

“So he was trying to go abroad. Or at least planning on it.”

“Seems to me that he genuinely believed there to be something worth a lot of money hidden at Newmont, that he’d be able to find it, sell it, and flee Britain.”

“That or he had proof of something valuable being there. He knew something that we don’t. Whatever he read in that stolen diary–”

“You mean this one?” she smirks, pulling said diary from the box, its dark leather cover creased and worn and tied shut with a simple black cord. He pulls this from her hand as well, though she lets him get away with it this time.

“Have you looked through it yet? Who did it belong to? ” He gently pulls the cord loose and starts leafing through the many pages of faded delicate script.

“Since I read the last diary nearly cover to cover, I figured you could have a go at this one. I’ve been preoccupied with tagging evidence, as it were.” She nods toward the rest of the books on the table.

“Right. I understand thinking the gun and the money in the ice box was quite suspicious, but why have we been saddled with Bailey’s entire library?”

Trewlove rubs her brow, visibly exasperated. “I had to call my governor to figure that out. Apparently finding the diary in the ice box led Mrs. Jones to believe that all of Bailey’s books could be considered evidence. ‘Better to be safe than sorry’ is what she claimed.” Morse can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, that’s how I feel, too. I’m nearly done, but it’s going to take the rest of the evening to type that list up.” 

“Anything overtly suspicious?” She shakes her head. “Well, then I believe I’ve a diary to read.”

“And I, a fair bit of typing.”

After tucking Bailey’s library back into boxes and bringing Trewlove up to speed on Seymour’s thoughts on the matter, the rest of their afternoon is spent in focused silence at Morse’s desk—Trewlove clacking away at his typewriter faster than he could ever dream of, and Morse bent over the second diary in a spare chair, eyes skimming the pages for the one word they needed to confirm their shaky new theory: _treasure_.

That Bailey was viciously murdered over an obscure rumor of treasure is based on completely circumstantial evidence, but Morse has seen his fair share of urban legends become reality. If this diary could corroborate the existence of treasure at Newmont decades before the college students started gossiping about it, that would certainly be a strong start to a new lead.

But the longer Morse reads through the curling script, two things become painfully clear. The first is that this was once a child’s diary; the second is that there is no indication of who the child was. Passages explaining in great detail their walks through the garden with their mother, playing with other children from the village or swapping stories with, presumably, the governess or some family friend, but not a single name.

Could the written word of a nameless child point them in the right direction?

“Morse.”

He jerks his head up when Trewlove sticks him with the end of her pen, then follows her gaze to see Thursday and Strange storming down the stairs onto the main floor. Another unsuccessful day for their case, then.

Strange settles down at his desk with a weak smile thrown their way. Thursday breezes past them with a, “You two, with me,” and vanishes into his office.

“Bright told me about your delivery this morning,” he starts when Trewlove shuts the door behind herself and Morse. “Starting a book club, are we?”

“Sir–” Morse tries.

“Or just following _plausible inquiries_?”

“Bailey’s landlady sent it all over of her own accord,” Trewlove says.

Morse nods. “She found his chequebook, travel pamphlets and the diary he’d referenced in his own writing. The rest is rubbish.”

“His chequebook? Why aren’t you reading through that instead of that ruddy old thing? How many hours have you spent on that already?” He points with this pipe to the diary clutched in his hand.

“I don’t think he’d used it in ages. According to Mrs. Jones, it was hidden in his ice box.”

“I don’t care if it hasn’t seen daylight since the Queen’s coronation—Bailey was a criminal tied up in business extortion and who knows what else. You don’t think there’d be paper trails? Phony cheques in fake names?”

There are a few short knocks on the door, and Painter pokes his head inside. “Constable Trewlove? Phone for you.” She hastily takes her leave from Thursday's office.

Thursday levels Morse with a severe gaze. “Do you have this under control?” 

“I– _yes_ ,” he stutters, temper simmering hot in his stomach. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? 

“Then don’t be so quick to eliminate lines of inquiry until you have the whole story. Haven’t you considered his motivation to sail south?”

“Of course we have–”

“That it could very well be that he knew he got sloppy somewhere and Cecil Strong needed to cut him loose?”

“But there’s no proof of that, and Bailey dying at Newmont is too odd, too specific. Trewlove and I discussed this already. If anything, I’d like to take a closer look at Godwin. Mrs. Seymour said he’s writing a book about the house. It’s possible he knows much more than he’s letting on for reasons other than being a witless–”

Before Morse can deliver his insult, Trewlove slips back in the office with a piece of paper.

“That was the manager from Botley Road Cabs,” she says. “One of their cars picked Bailey up from the station and took him all the way to Salford that night. The cabbie didn’t see where he went, and he paid in cash.”

“He went to the village first?” Morse asks. 

“He must have met someone there,” she replies, “else he would have gone straight to the house. And...”

“What else?” Thursday prods.

“Bailey _had_ packed a bag. A small knapsack, according to the driver. And I took another look at the evidence list. The pistol is a .45 calibre. There are two boxes of ammunition. One has .45 rounds, but the other is for a .22 calibre gun. Sir.”

Thursday flicks open his silver lighter and brings his pipe to life.

“Sounds like we have a missing gun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHARACTER LIST:  
> • Ian Bailey—victim  
> • Cecil Strong—owner of Slings and Arrows bookstore  
> • Percy Urwin—manager of Slings and Arrows  
> • Mrs. Jones—Bailey's landlady  
> • Herbert Humphries & Stephen Coleman—London tailors  
> • Mr. Franklin—TOSCA conductor  
> • Dr. Godwin—OPS project manager  
> • Margaret Walker—history student  
> • Billy Morgan—owner of the Salford Inn  
> • Carol Seymour—OPS chief historian
> 
> \---
> 
> Hi hi! I have good news and bad news—the bad news is that this fic will be going on a ~temporary hiatus~ (probably until November?) but the good news is that's bc I'm working on a different WIP that I'd like to have uploaded by late October! It's a story based heavily in the mid-autumn season so I'm going to try my /actual hardest/ to have it either totally finished or upload several chapters in two or three waves over the course of the last week of Oct. There is nothing more immersive, imo, than reading a story during the season it takes place. And I'm having a blast writing it already :')
> 
> Life as a U.S. citizen continues to be like, an hourly battle against new human rights violations and an atrocious fraudulent government and a centrist news cycle and a monoculture of selfishness and capitalism so this corner of the Internet has been a real blessing. Coincidentally catching my first ep of Endeavour on PBS at 1am while sick as a fish the week before the US started state shutdowns really feels like fate at this point.
> 
> \---
> 
> I'm on Tumblr! @welcometo-yourworld


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